The morning broke with a gray, thin light that did not warm the palace. Vanya walked the outer courtyard like a queen making rounds of an island, hands clasped behind her back, eyes like knives scanning. Servants moved with the furtive economy of those who had learned to make themselves small. The air carried the sour tang of damp straw and yesterday's cooking, and somewhere a bell tinkled the hour, a small ordinary sound that seemed insolent against the weight of what had happened.
She had gone out with the intention of seeing the morning's reports, which patrols had returned, which scouts had not. She wanted to prove to Gonzalo she could everything Liora could do. She had not expected to stop at the old tree by the eastern wall. The sight there hit the flat of her mood as if it were a thing thrown hard.
