Ulrich nodded.
He glanced once at the half-finished schedule on his desk, then turned it face down.
"Have refreshments brought," he said. "And tell the kitchens there will be a guest at dinner."
Fabian did not ask how Ulrich knew that Meera would likely stay for dinner.
"Yes, my lord."
Ulrich stepped out of the office and closed the door behind him.
He tugged twice at his left cuff as he walked.
The white linen sat properly over his wrist. The amber marks were higher, curled around the upper arm beneath the sleeve, and no part of them could be seen. There was no reason to check.
He checked anyway.
Then he descended the stairs.
The guest reception room lay on the ground floor, in the eastern wing, where the afternoon light came in long and gold through the tall windows. It was the room House Rubenhart used for visitors who were neither family nor petitioners. Merchants of standing. Envoys from tenant lords. People who were owed courtesy but not trust.
