Sera Thorne ran her finger down the dog-eared parchment of her thick leather Overtime Grudge Ledger.
The sea wind fluttered the dense columns of red ink.
For ninety long days, while Kaelen Vance had remained in his hammock accumulating his consecutive Fallow Hours, Sera had kept meticulous records of every single disturbance outside the grotto threshold.
Every acoustic flare, every stray arrow, and every dropped anchor had been recorded with the date, the time, and the assessed fine.
Barnaby Holt walked over with a small ceramic plate holding three warm slices of steamed pumpkin. He set it gently beside Kaelen’s teacup on the balustrade.
“A little morning starch, young master,” Barnaby whispered. “It settles the nerves while the accounts are being audited.”
“A wise precaution, Barnaby,” Kaelen Vance agreed, picking up a slice with two fingers. “Auditing ancient tyrants is notoriously taxing on the digestive tract.”
Kaelen checked his porcelain teacup—which was still pleasantly warm—and took a slow, refreshing sip of his oolong tea.
