The seal went out at six-fourteen.
Lucien walked it to the Cathedral wing himself. He had drafted the response. He would deliver it. The team had drafted with him through the night, but the delivery was a single hand's act and Lucien did not delegate signature work.
I watched him cross the lower courtyard from the western balcony. The morning light caught the dark of his coat. His pace was the trained ducal pace — measured, unhurried, the rhythm a man used when he knew he was being observed. The Inquisitorial guards at the senior guest suite would receive the document and pass it to Sister Iren. Iren would set it before Castellan at the breakfast he took at seven sharp. Castellan would read it. The next move would arrive sometime after noon.
Lucien came back to the suite by six-thirty.
