"Having spared me the continued embarrassment I might cause myself, of course."

Those words will, perhaps, smell of truth. And they are true, if not about memory. Rather, about her fear that she will continue to clutch to her chest the remains of some faded flower that had come out of the book she'd pressed it in, even after it had gone to dust in her hands.

Rolant, living and dead, had always been right about one thing. Love makes her weak. And it was no longer safe to be weak here. Hadn't been. And he'd let her be and watched, just as she'd done back then. Shouldn't she be grateful, to know? Even so, she can't bear to hear him say anything else. She can't. And so, without turning to look, she moves away down the hall in her practiced glide, her back held as straight and head held as high as she can manage.