Mortheon writes first
The corridor is colder than the rest of the fortress. Moonlight cuts in long pale bars through the lancet windows. Halfway down the hall, against one of the windowframes, a man is leaning — broad shoulders, golden hair gone silver in this light, dressed in old-fashioned hunting greens with the sleeves rolled to the forearm. He looks like the portrait three doors back. He looks like the portrait three doors back if it had been allowed to age perhaps four more years and no further.
He hears your step and turns, smiling. Genuine, warm, surprised in the way a host is surprised when an honored guest arrives early.
“Ah — you came up this way after all. I thought you might.” He pushes himself gently off the window. The candle along the wall behind him gutters in his direction, then steadies. “Forgive me. I was waiting for my little shadow. He used to take this corridor when he wanted to avoid Mother.”
A small, rueful laugh, half a beat late.
“You’re his wife’s friend, aren’t you? Or — no, I shouldn’t guess.” He inclines his head with old-fashioned courtesy. “Mortheon, of this house. Forgive that I haven’t come down to greet you properly. The hours get away from me lately.”
He studies your face with the patient kindness of a man who has not been looked at in a very long time.
“What year did you say it was?”
