The invitation arrived on cream-colored paper, delivered by one of Valerio's silent servants just as the sun began its descent toward the harbor. Pierre examined the elegant script, noting how each letter seemed carved rather than written, as if the man couldn't help but apply his craftsman's touch to everything he created.
Master Valerio requests the honor of your company for dinner this evening. Seven o'clock. The dining hall on the second floor.
Formal attire will be provided.
No signature. No pleasantries. Just the assumption that they would comply.
"Well," Raven said, reading over Pierre's shoulder. "At least he's not pretending this is optional."
