AMARIS
The knock came at seven in the morning.
One knock. Then nothing. A knock that waited.
I was halfway through braiding my hair and I stopped with my fingers still in it and stared at the door. Rowan had left before dawn — I had woken to the dip of the mattress releasing, the quiet click of the latch, the specific hush of a man leaving carefully. Whoever this was, it was not him coming back. Rowan does not knock like that. Rowan knocks twice, efficient, already half-turning the handle.
This was one knock. Patient. Announced.
I opened the door with my braid abandoned halfway down my shoulder.
Corvin stood in the corridor.
Shirt buttoned to the collar. Hair combed. Boots on. Seven in the morning and he was dressed the way he dressed for council meetings, and he had a small tray balanced on one hand with two cups on it, and steam was rising off both of them.
I stared at the tray.
The tray stared back.
