The problem with distance, Sebastian thought, was that people lied about it constantly.
They spoke of it as if distance brought clarity. As if leaving one court for another, one capital for another, and one set of duties for another automatically thinned whatever had been left unresolved. As if travel itself performed some elegant internal correction and turned discomfort into perspective.
It did not.
It simply removed distractions, leaving a man alone with the exact shape of what he had said.
Sebastian sat in his office at Fitzgeralt Manor with three open documents before him and absorbed none of them.
