"Trees accept apologies?"
"Apparently," Cerys muttered.
Serelith exhaled a soft laugh with no humor. "Do you recall the Syndicate envoy three winters ago? He thought he could infiltrate the Grove in a glamour disguise." She tapped a manicured nail on her saucer. "He crawled back blindfolded, muttering about vines that whisper every sin he'd ever committed. Took the healers a month to steady his mind."
Mikhailis swallowed the last of his scone—suddenly dry. "Lovely. And here I imagined an afternoon of gentle prophecy over chamomile." Note to self: pack anxiety tea, maybe two bags.
Vyrelda's gaze swept him like a commander checking a recruit's stance. "Speak with respect," she advised. "And keep your hands visible. They interpret posture with religious precision."
