“I take a deep, shuddering breath. Kind, foolish Jules. I touch his face. His jutting cheekbone. His infinitely intelligent eyes. “You can’t marry me, Jules,” I tell him, my mouth trembling. “I’m not a Kelt.” His expression turns fierce. “I don’t care! When have I ever cared?” “I will always be Gardnerian.” “Then be Gardnerian,” he stubbornly returns. “We’ll make a life in Verpacia. And when things calm down, we can wandfast if it’s possible. I don’t care. I’d bind myself to you.”
