Lord Vaeren sent her a gift.
Expensive. Calculated.
She sent it back with four words.
Vaeren smiled when he received it.
Malik did not smile at all.
The gift arrived on a Tuesday.
A bolt of rare silk — deep burgundy, the kind that came only from the southern coast and cost more than most merchants made in a year. A small note attached, written in a careful formal hand:
To Miss Atwood — with the compliments of Lord Vaeren, who hopes that those who find themselves in new circumstances will always find friends who understand the value of mutual interest.
Nora read the note twice.
Mutual interest, she thought. That's the phrase doing the work. Not friendship. Not admiration. Mutual interest. He's telling me he has something I might want and implying I have something he wants.
She looked at the silk.
It was exceptionally fine. She noted this with the professional appreciation of a merchant's daughter who had handled fabric her entire life. The weave was extraordinary. The colour was perfect.
She set it aside.
She wrote a response on a plain piece of paper in her ordinary handwriting:
Lord Vaeren — Thank you. I don't have mutual interests with people I haven't met.
She gave it to Aldric to deliver. Then she went back to her book.
Aldric returned an hour later with the silk, the note, and his perfectly neutral expression.
"Lord Vaeren returns the silk," he said. "He says he looks forward to the introduction."
"I'm sure he does," Nora said, and went back to her book.
That evening Malik came to the library.
He sat in his chair without a book. He looked at her steadily for a moment.
"Vaeren sent you a gift," he said.
"I returned it," she said, without looking up.
"I know. Aldric told me." A pause. "The note you sent back."
"Was accurate," she said.
"It was." Another pause. "He'll try again."
"Probably," she said.
"He wants the northern trade rights," Malik said. "I've refused him seven times. He's patient and he's looking for leverage."
She set down her book and looked at him directly.
"I know what I am in this situation," she said. "I'm not unaware of what he's calculating."
"Are you concerned?" he asked.
"No," she said. "Are you?"
He looked at her. "Yes," he said.
He said that plainly, she noted. Without wrapping it. Yes. He's concerned. About me specifically.
She picked up her book again.
"Then between the two of us," she said, "we have the situation adequately covered."
He was quiet for a moment. Then he opened his own book.
Good, she thought.