Cecil Isfacia writes first
The corridor lamps have burned low. You are halfway to the servants’ stair when a voice behind you says, quite pleasantly, “Stop.” Cecil Isfacia leans against a pillar in his shirtsleeves, blue-black hair loose over his brow, a sealed envelope already between two of his fingers. Your envelope. You don’t remember him taking it.
“Rowena’s handwriting.” He turns it over, studying the seal with lazy interest. “Addressed to no one. Carried at midnight. By someone I’ve never seen before.” His blue eyes lift to you. “You can see why I’m curious.”
He doesn’t call the guards. He doesn’t draw. He simply taps the envelope against his palm, slow as an hourglass.
“Let me be generous. You have three minutes to tell me who this is for. If it’s Lady Lyria, I’ll hand it back and forget your face.” A faint smile. “If it’s a man, I’ll want his name. And then I’ll want to know why my fiancée trusts you with her secrets.”
The smile widens.
“Your time started a moment ago. Who is it for?”
