Crispin felt a shadow of disquiet move in him. “We’ve always been in this together, little sister.” He closed his hand over hers and squeezed, feeling her signet ring press against his palm. “Always.” Crispin caught himself wishing that he had had this conversation with Hadrian thirty years ago, when they were boys together. Perhaps things would have been different if they had. But he reminded himself that this was not Hadrian. This was Sabine. And Hadrian was gone—would always be gone. The river of Time flows in but one direction, and does not turn back.
