Behind Michael, Captain Rohan stood rigid, anger held on a short leash. His gauntleted fingers flexed and stilled on the pommel of his sword. Twice he drew breath to speak, and twice Michael's slight tilt of the head kept him quiet.
Minutes went by.
The tea cooled.
Somewhere in the castle, a bell marked the hour.
At last, Darius Vellon entered. He took in the scene—the young Lord seated, the captain at his back, the open book in the young man's hands—and allowed a ghost of a smile to touch his mouth.
Before offering greeting or courtesy, Darius walked to the opposite chair and sat.
Michael finished his paragraph, closed the book with gentle care, and set it atop the tray as though it too were part of the service. Only then did he look up, gaze steady, almost amused.
"Sir Darius," he said, voice mild. "Thank you for the tea."
