Kaelen slowly lowered his teacup, blinking at the frantic young woman kneeling on his porch.
Alchemist Linnea stared up at him with shining, tear-streaked eyes, her hands trembling as she pressed the torn flyleaf against her chest.
Behind her, Barnaby Holt stood frozen, his wooden ladle poised in midair like a startled heron.
The bandit king locked the third consort in the Cold Palace because she poisoned his favorite hound, Kaelen thought. The author was a broke tavern clerk in Ashford who was paid two copper coins per page to write ten thousand words of weeping.
Explaining that to an exhausted, sleep-deprived alchemist sounded like far too much work.
Correcting her mistake would require twenty minutes of tedious literary analysis.
Nodding along required zero effort, conserved his breath, and might even convince her to leave his porch before dinner got cold.
“The Dao of Heaven takes many forms,” Kaelen said solemnly, setting his cup onto the low cedar table. “Some seek enlightenment in ancient bronze cauldrons. Others find it in popular street drama.”
