Once inside Ulrich's office, Meera wandered farther into the chamber before turning upon her heel to watch him close the door behind them.
The room was steeped in shadowed quiet, lit by the pale wash of daylight that slipped through the tall, narrow windows and fell across shelves with ledgers, sealed letters, and maps pinned beneath brass weights. A low fire breathed in the hearth, lending warmth to the stone-walled chamber, though little of it softened the strictness of the place. It was a room that seemed built in Ulrich's image, orderly, restrained, and faintly oppressive.
When he turned to face her, Meera was already smiling at him with bright expectation, her hands lightly pinching the sides of her gown as she lifted the skirts a little in a playful display.
"So, Lord Rubenhart," she said, her eyes gleaming, "have you not something to say to me?"
"You are late," Ulrich replied, already crossing the room toward his desk.
