The letter was still on the table.
Paris had left it there that morning, folded and sealed with the crude mark—a circle with a line through it. He had shown it to Lysander, who had shown it to Fylon, who had promised to trace it. Now it sat beside the lamp, the wax catching the light every time the flame flickered.
Helen had not asked about it. She had seen his face when he came back from the war room, and she had not asked.
She was at the small table by the window, a tablet in her hand, the supply inventory Arsini had assigned her half-finished. Her stylus moved in steady strokes, but her eyes kept drifting to the letter.
"Stop looking at it," Paris said.
"I'm not looking at it."
"You've looked at it four times since you sat down."
She set the stylus down. "Who sent it."
"Fylon thinks it's someone from the temple. One of the priest's followers. The language matches his sermons."
