The alcove smelled of fish guts and damp wood, and the crates that formed its walls were crusted with packing salt and the silvery residue of scales. It wasn't the sort of place where a lady of Jocelynn's station would normally find herself, but nothing about Jocelynn's life had been normal since the night Owain murdered her sister.
Devlin positioned himself at the entrance, his broad shoulders blocking most of the gap while his eyes kept watch on the market beyond. Jean stood to one side with his arms folded loosely, giving Jocelynn as much space as the narrow alcove allowed.
She broke the seal and unfolded the letter.
The handwriting was Isabell's. The page was filled with the crisp, angular script of an engineer who valued precision over flourish. Jocelynn recognized it from the correspondence Isabell had sent her father over the years regarding the renovations to Blackwell Manor, and the familiarity of those neat, sharp letters struck her harder than she'd expected.
