For an hour after the last stitch was tied, the East Room was quieter than a parish church on a Tuesday.
Noll kept the floor flagstones under the limestone table at a steady ninety-eight degrees, banking the overhead ceiling glow down to a soft, honey-coloured twilight so Edren could sleep without squinting. Hobb tiptoed in twice with heated bricks wrapped in flannel and a covered jug of beef-and-barley tea, setting them on the corner bench without a single clatter of iron or crockery before backing out and pulling the curtain across the arch.
Tessa sat on a low wooden stool drawn tight against the slab, her cheek resting on her folded forearm and her right hand still loosely curled around her father’s thumb. Every ten seconds she opened one eye just far enough to watch the wool blanket rise and fall over Edren’s bandaged ribs. Each breath came up clean—shallow from the soreness of the cut, yet completely free of the dry, tearing hitch that had followed him up the hill road at dawn.
Over by the copper washstand, Prit stood on his oak stool with a small earthenware bowl of sour wine vinegar and a pair of brass tweezers.
