The contralto hum hung in the cold air of the amphitheater like the fading resonance of a bowed cello string. It was a sound so laden with human warmth that it seemed impossible it had issued from copper gears, oilcloth diaphragms, and threads of silver wire.
Lord Auditor Orin Vane remained upon his knees before the open chassis of his portable register. His forehead rested against the cold brass rim, his shoulders hitching in silent spasms. The machine continued its soft, rhythmic ticking, gears engaging with minuscule precision as the oath-silver circuits translated fourteen years of intimate letters into acoustic vibrations.
“Or... in...” the acoustic horn whispered again.
The voice was slightly muffled, as if speaking through a wooden doorway on a rainy evening, yet it carried an unmistakable lilt—the soft, rounded vowels of the western river valleys, the gentle inflection of a woman who had spent her youth among orchards and spinning wheels.
“Listen to her,” Vane murmured into the brass casing. His voice was cracked, raw with a desperate, pleading tenderness. “Listen to her voice. She does not scream. She does not curse the gates or the guard. She knows why I had to do it. She understands.”
