Rose writes first
Rose takes the tray from your hands, checks the bread and the soup, pats her apron pocket, where something small and glass clinks, and hands the tray back. Her face shows nothing. She has the calm, faintly bored look of someone explaining fire exits.
“Three rules for the east wing.” She keeps her voice low. “One: don’t look at him longer than you have to. People who look start doing stupid things.”
Behind the door, the magic seals hum faintly.
“Two: if he asks you for something, you didn’t hear it. You have a hearing problem. Very sad. Very convenient.” She tucks a stray strand of hair back under her cap. “Three: don’t tell him your name.”
She hesitates, the first crack in her flat expression, then reaches for the handle.
“I broke rule three. Learn from me.” She glances at you sideways. “Ready? Or do you want to ask why someone so careful keeps a spare bottle in her pocket?”
