Dinner was held in one of Palatine's smaller imperial dining rooms, which still meant a table long enough for twelve people, carved walnut walls, and three chandeliers throwing warm light across crystal and polished silver.
Outside the tall windows, snow continued to fall over the inner gardens, settling along the stone balustrades and the dark branches of the winter roses. Inside, the fire had been built high enough that Lucas had abandoned his jacket before the first course.
Serathine sat at Ethan's right in deep green silk, her red hair pinned loosely at the nape of her neck with several silver combs. Time had done remarkably little to diminish her presence. At nearly sixty, her face carried fine lines around sharp amber eyes, but nothing about her suggested fragility.
Dean had once heard someone describe her as retired.
The person had clearly never met her.
