By midmorning, the cottages were awake and noisy again. Marla had commandeered the women's kitchen, Eira was sorting herb bundles by scent alone, and Shayra had somehow turned a simple ribbon search into a floor-wide explosion of shawls.
Tristan tried to focus on ledgers at the table by the window. He had been adding neat columns for an hour and had balanced none of them.
Shannon, meanwhile, repaired a loose hinge on the back door, occasionally looking at Tristan in the hope of striking up a conversation.
A knock sounded—quick, official, practiced.
The "repairman" opened the door. A royal courier stood there in autumn livery, dust on his boots and a scroll case at his hip, with Mira standing just behind him.
Shannon took the case, broke the seal, and scanned the top line. His eyebrows moved a fraction. "It's from Prince Dorian."
Tristan stood without meaning to. Shayra drifted closer like a cat stalking a saucer of milk.
