Vencian closed the door and stepped into the corridor. The house had settled into its evening shape. Voices drifted up from below. The passage held a hush as the lanterns burned low along the walls.
The black-haired maid appeared at the corridor's bend. She turned as he approached, hands folded, posture easy.
"Good evening." Her voice carried practiced warmth. "Are you searching for supper?"
"Perhaps," Vencian said. "I thought I might walk first. Clear my head after the road."
"Of course." She gestured toward the passage ahead. "The hall lies this way. I can show you."
She began walking. Vencian fell into step behind her, close enough to mark how her skirts shifted when she turned corners.
They moved through the narrower sections where lamplight thinned. Her pace stayed consistent. She knew these halls by counting steps rather than looking.
"The baron keeps the place well," Vencian said. "For a house of this age, it carries itself."
"The staff takes pride in it."
