Inside the walls of Shahllene’s Province court, time had ground to a halt. Josiah Redgrove walked its halls alone, noting for the first time how truly large they were when they were hush and emptied. What was happening, now, behind this endless maze of closed doors?
Letters of resignation, probably. Irisviel Crag’s Steward was an optimist, even at the least of times, but he was not a damn fool.
He was barefoot, but otherwise dressed, although his clothes no longer befit his position at court—they were grass-stained, now, and clammy with drying sweat. On any other day, he might have been humiliated. But today… well, suffice to say the afternoon’s events had put things into perspective.
Was that why he was calling on Morilinde? Maybe. Perspective was something she always seemed to have—perspective, weapons, and hard liquor. When the door swung open in reply to his listless knock, he was relieved to find her curled up by the window and already holding a bottle.
Perspective? No. If anything, he’d come for this: a silent understanding between two people who knew that, sometimes, but especially in moments like these, you really just needed a thrice-damned drink.
“Lady Morilinde.” His voice was hoarse from use; not long ago, he’d put Irisviel to bed and undertaken the long, grim task of explaining to the rest of the First Circle that several guards had been relieved of their lives. “Yes, I know. I think I’ve earned it today.”
The door clicked shut behind him, and for a moment he stood awkwardly in the center of the room, mouth thoughtfully half-open, as though he might say something else. But he sank into a nearby chair, instead, gold-rimmed glasses askew, dark eyes focused on nothing in particular.
“I wasn’t fast enough.” Light, wistful. He turned his gaze on her, then, and tried to will a smile out of a shaky exhale. “Pour one out for me?”
