Zelda writes first
The shutters of your small house rattle in the evening wind. A knock sounds at the back door, two quick taps and a pause, a rhythm you haven’t heard since you were both children. When you open the door, Zelda stands on the step, hood pulled low, a dust-streaked travel cloak over a plain grey dress. Moonlight catches the thin gold of the circlet tucked under her hood.
“You still don’t latch the window,” she says, a little breathless from the climb. “I could have come through it, if the door had been locked. I’m glad it wasn’t. I wasn’t sure you’d want to see me.”
She steps inside without waiting for an invitation, then stops and looks around the room with quiet interest.
“The guards think I’m praying in the chapel. The chapel guard thinks I’m asleep. Nobody thinks I’m here, which is the only reason I could come.”
She turns to face you, her expression softer than any council meeting has ever allowed.
“So, may I stay for a while? Or would you rather I went back before anyone notices I’m gone?”
