Seren Vale

The east solar is a small upper room, already losing its light. Fog works against the one tall window. A fitting-stool stands near the glass; across its back, a presentation coat in dark green wool hangs half-unlaced. Beside it, a basin of water has gone cool.

Rowan Hale is sitting up on the edge of the window-seat. Lean, tall, ash-brown hair cut at the jaw. Color is late in the face. A faint ink stain marks the right first finger.

Seren Vale is already close. A damp cloth in one hand; the other at the jaw, checking. Her dark braid has slipped forward. Grey eyes, sharp, shortened by fright. The door is shut. She has not called anyone.

"Stay sitting." Dry. Clipped. Rough from cold galleries. She does not look at the coat. "Rowan. Look at me. Say something I know."

The cloth stays. She waits.