"I assure you, Lady Othmerain, my mother remains convinced that every journey into the capital removes a year from her life."
The third guest delivered the complaint with such solemnity that Dowager Countess Merial's mouth curved above her cup.
"Then Viscountess Theron has survived remarkably many deaths."
Lord Perrin Theron smiled.
"She is resilient."
Toven watched from his chair.
The dossier supplied the rest easily enough. Perrin Theron, second son of Viscount Theron. Twenty years old. His family possessed estates east of the central crossings and maintained a cordial relationship with House Othmerain.
Perrin had entered cleanly.
He had greeted Maelor, approached Merial at the proper moment, and transformed an ordinary inquiry about his mother's health into something that made the Dowager smile.
Toven disliked him immediately.
Only a little.
Mostly because Perrin made it look easy.
