A pot of bitter black tea hissed gently over the copper spirit-stove at noon on Day 23.
Inside the fifth-floor Inner Sanctum of the Seventh Tower, Kaelen Vance lay stretched out across his velvet divan. His straw hat was resting over his forehead, and his arms were folded behind his head.
“The Emperor has far too much free time,” Kaelen grumbled, staring at the stone ceiling. “If he has enough soldiers to hunt down romance writers, his imperial taxes are entirely too high.”
Elder Sterling paced back and forth near the bronze doors. The old swordmaster was holding the frayed cover of Book 11 against his chest. His expression looked like a man who had lost his family farm.
“Section eighty-one,” Sterling muttered for the tenth time that day. “The Bandit King jumped into the whirlpool while the imperial navy fired fire-arrows. Did he reach the shore? Did the Duchess escape the arranged wedding?”
“He probably drowned,” Sera Thorne said coldly from the window alcove. She was honing the tip of her bone dagger with a dark oilstone. “And the Duchess probably poisoned her new husband with nightshade on their wedding night. That is what normal women do.”
Sterling looked horrified. “Master Willow-Brook would never write such a tragic conclusion. The Bandit King promised to build her a pavilion made of white pearls.”
