A drop of bitter black tea dripped from Deacon Lucius Vane’s brush, spattering across the decoded parchment.
The heavy tea table on the ninth-floor balcony was covered in military cipher grids, boundary sketches, and troop rosters.
Outside, the late afternoon wind howled across the slate parapets, carrying the damp chill of the approaching river winter.
Deacon Vane smoothed the wrinkled vellum with his ink-stained fingers.
Around the table stood Sera Thorne, Mina Vance, Linnea, and Chief Steward Barnaby Holt, their expressions grave.
A few paces away, Kaelen Vance lay stretched out in his canvas hammock, gently swaying beneath the cedar cupola.
His straw hat rested over his face, shading his eyes from the setting sun. A steaming pot of roasted barley tea sat within arm’s reach on the floor.
Beneath his eyelids, the slate glowed in deep charcoal strokes.
