Pell brought the supper up to the receiving-hall because nobody else would, and because the Kitchen had sent up a supper for the Chamberlain every evening since the Charter of Forms, and a thing done every evening becomes a duty whether anyone has asked for it or not. It was barley and mutton and a heel of the Lowgate dark bread, with a cup of the sweet tea Velvet liked and the Kitchen could never make without making a fuss about the sugar. Pell carried the tray in both hands, sideways through the door, and kicked the door shut with her heel the way she had done for thirty years.
“There you are, love,” she said. “I’ve brought your tea, and you’ll drink it whether you’re hungry or not.”
The chair of state was empty.
Pell stopped in the middle of the floor. The tray tilted, and a little tea went over the rim of the cup and ran down the side. Then she saw the chair was not empty at all. Velvet sat in it, upright, with her back not touching the carved wood and her gloved hands folded in her lap. Her eyes were open. They were pale and clear and looking at the far wall, where the candle-lit tapestry showed the old Mason’s Yard in red and brown thread, and there was nothing in them at all.
