The manor gates creaked open well after dusk. Hooves clattered on the stones, and torches flared as the guards straightened.
Shannon dismounted in one smooth motion, his cloak damp from the mountain mist. He looked tired from the ride down from Blackthorn Keep, but nothing in his frame bent or faltered.
Tristan had been waiting. He tried not to look like it—his violin case rested on the bench beside him, and a ledger lay open on his knees as though he had been working the whole time. But when Shannon stepped through the archway, the words blurred on the page.
"You're late," Tristan said, closing the ledger with careful calm.
Shannon arched his brow. "The road was longer than I remembered. Blackthorn doesn't move closer just because you want it to."
"You could have sent a word," Tristan replied. His tone stayed even, though his fingers tapped lightly against the case.
"I did," Shannon said. "Mira never tells you when I do, does she?"
