Seeing Darien leave the orphanage gates, the box of precious cheese tarts held carefully in his hands, Eamond felt a distinct pang of regret.
Wish he'd stayed over, he thought grimly, watching the champion's figure disappear into the dimly lit street.
If something goes sideways with the Fourth Prince sleeping in our drafty dormitory, having a Voss heir conveniently present to share the blame... or at least the political fallout... would have been incredibly useful.
House Voss taking some of the heat? That sounded like a perfectly reasonable survival strategy.
He closed the heavy gate with a soft thud, the cheerful sounds of children getting ready for bed drifting from the main building. The warm, fuzzy feeling from the successful tarts had evaporated completely, replaced by cold, hard reality. They were hosting a live grenade disguised as a cheerful five-year-old.
