Quinlan led Alexios down the basement stairs, and the cold reached them before the light did.
A short corridor waited at the bottom, plain oak doors on either side, storerooms and root cellars and an iron-banded pantry. Every door matched the stone, sturdy and unremarkable.
Except one.
It was lacquered a deep, glossy red, gilded vines curling up its frame, and Alexios could swear he saw the silhouette of three furry tails embedded into the red.
Somebody had clearly loved decorating it.
Alexios slowed. He looked at the door, then at Quinlan.
"What do you keep in there?"
"What do you think?"
The king studied the crimson lacquer for a moment. A vault. A reliquary. Some indulgence of the ladies, jewelry, silks...
"A treasury," he decided. "For the women's finery."
"What an old-school romantic man you are. Morgana is truly wasted on you."
"...I told you many times to stop badmouthing-"
"-your damned wife?" Quinlan finished for him.
