"Not exactly, I'm saying the note I accepted was not genuine. I should have checked it in better light. I didn't. That's on me." Oren swallowed.
"There's more. The crate I helped Mila carry two days before she left. She said it was winter stores. It was light. Too light for grain or cloth. And it smelled wrong. I told myself it was southern packing oil. It wasn't. It was the same bitter root scent that ended up on my hands." He added.
Lila studied him. The fear was still there, but under it was the flat weight of a man who had decided that silence would cost him more than speech.
"Why tell us now?"
"Because the laundry girl failed last night," Oren said. "And because if this keeps spreading I will be the steward who let a forged seal and a light crate walk out of the keep. I would rather be the steward who finally spoke."
