Elara didn't send a note. Elara didn't need to.
I was halfway through morning meditation in Room Seven when Kira's signature flared in my mind — small, warm, a four-pound spirit beast registering excitement on a frequency that came directly through the bond Elara had woven between us months ago. The fox had a vocabulary of about twelve discrete emotional states, and I'd learned most of them. This one was *come*.
Not urgent. Just *come*. The fox version of an outstretched hand.
I opened my eyes. Ren was at his desk, pen moving. He looked up.
"Kira?"
"Yes."
"Greenhouse?"
"Probably."
"You should bring her flowers."
"I should — what?"
"Elara. Flowers. Standard greeting in the Wildgrove. You hand someone a flower when you arrive at their door, they hand you one back when you leave. It's the regional equivalent of bowing." He didn't look up from his page. "I assumed you knew."
"How would I have known?"
