The cold metal of the doorframe bit into Ivara’s shoulder as she stood staring into the enclosure. The creature wearing Deren Vey’s face sat with its broad palms resting quietly on its knees. Its breath rose in thin, regular vapors that scattered against the damp stone. It didn’t fidget. It didn’t glance toward the corners of the ceiling. It possessed the terrifying stillness of a care tool returned to its velvet-lined box after the shift had ended.
“Deren,” Ivara said again, forcing her voice down into her chest until it sounded steady. “Listen to me. Where is the letter?”
The creature’s brow creased slightly. The movement was so natural, so fully reminiscent of the living courier trying to recall a misplaced delivery receipt, that for half a second Ivara felt an irrational urge to reach out and touch the rough wool of his sleeve.
“The letter?” the thing asked. Its voice was warm, carrying that familiar, gentle self-deprecation. “Which one, Ivara? The manifest for the salt barrels, or the dispatch for Edren Bale? I gave Bale’s voucher to the clerk at the gatehouse before we unhitched.”
“The letter to Cira,” Ivara said, her eyes fixed on the pale gray irises. “The letter you wrote on the zinc vouchers. The one you sealed with graphite paste behind the backup return valve.”
