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Summary
It was seldom enough that The Hidden King took a bride that my village did not much mind giving me up. And it was not like in the old, dramatic stories, where a fair virgin is offered in sacrifice to a stinking beast or a temperamental god, wrath vaster than the sky. There was no prophecy, no oracle on a hill, no fire in the sky. Only Fauve, The Hidden King’s emissary, riding up to my father’s door on a hot spring day, dismounting from his rickety horse-drawn cart, and my father with shaking hands letting him in and offering him tea like any other guest.