Orin sat across from Marina at the kitchen table, watching her stir honey into her tea. He'd been thinking about the full moon ceremony for weeks now, turning over how to explain what it meant. Not the romance of it — Marina already knew he wanted forever. The binding part. The part that didn't end. She set down her spoon and looked at him. "What do you think happens to love after someone dies?" The question came out of nowhere, casual as asking about the weather. But Orin felt something shift in his chest. He'd carried the ring box in his coat pocket for three days now, waiting for the right moment to start the conversation he'd been avoiding. Now she'd opened the door herself. He didn't answer right away. Outside the window, he could see the edge of the Nammes Tythwear site where the old stones circled the bonfire pit. The ceremony ground. He'd walked past it yesterday and pictured Marina standing there under the full moon, pictured the words that would bind them past death and into whatever came after. "I think it doesn't stop," he said finally. "I think it's the one thing that gets to stay." Marina nodded slowly, like she'd expected him to say exactly that. She reached across the table and took his hand. "Good," she said. "Because I've been reading about the full moon ceremonies. The old ones." Orin's breath caught. She knew. Or she was close enough that the conversation he'd been dreading might actually be one they could have. He pulled the wooden box from his pocket and set it between them on the table. The star diamond caught the morning light. "Then we should talk," he said.

Marina reached for the ring box. Orin watched her fingers trace the edge of the wood, then lift the lid. The star diamond sat in white velvet, catching morning light the way it had for three days in his pocket. But Marina wasn't looking at the ring. Her hand moved to the inside of the lid where he'd pressed a folded square of paper. He'd forgotten about that. Or maybe he'd tried to forget. She unfolded it and read aloud. "Witnessed at the stone cottage with the red dragon roof, under full moon, seventh day of spring." She looked up at him. "You already scheduled it." Not a question. Her voice was level, but he heard the edge underneath. "You were so worried I wouldn't understand what I was agreeing to, but you already picked the date and the place." Orin felt his stomach drop. "I wanted to be ready," he said. "I wasn't going to use it unless you—" But the words sounded hollow even to him. He'd walked to that cottage three times. Spoken to the keeper. Put down a deposit on a ceremony he hadn't asked her about yet. "You're right. That was dishonest." Marina set the paper on the table between them. She lifted the ring from the box — the swamp ring with its spirals of color that seemed to move in the light — and held it up. "My grandmother wore one of these," she said quietly. "She told me once that the ceremony doesn't break when you die. It pulls you back together, whether you want it or not. Forever is the easy part. It's the no choice after that scares people." She looked at him. "I already know what I'm agreeing to, Orin. The question is whether you trust me to mean it." Orin took the ring from her hand and set it back in the box. He pulled out the folded paper, the one with the date and cottage name, and tore it in half. "Then we start over," he said. "No date until you ask for one. No ceremony until you tell me you want it." Marina picked up one half of the torn paper and smoothed it flat against the table. She didn't smile, but something in her face softened. The shift between them was small but permanent. He'd let go of control. She'd claimed her part of the choice.