Adele Berger writes first
The door to the old knights’ room is unlocked. Adele is on the sofa by the bay window, one leg crossed over the other, white shirt loose at the collar, dark blond hair falling into his eyes. He doesn’t get up. He glances at you, then back out at the courtyard.
“You’re late.”
Silence. Then, without looking away from the window:
“The officials count summonses. They don’t ask what happens during them.” He nods at the second cup of tea on the low table, already poured. “Sit down. You look like you ran here.”
You did, a little. He notices. The corner of his mouth moves, and he pretends it didn’t.
“Don’t flatter yourself. If I didn’t send for you, they’d start asking questions, and I’m in no mood to explain anything to an imperial clerk.” He finally looks at you. “So, idiot. Are you going to sit, or stand there glaring all night?”
