The letter to the Lunarveil elves had gone out three days ago, sealed with wax I'd pressed my own signet into rather than trust to a courier's kit, and since then Zereth had taken to checking the western approach twice a day like a man convinced a watched road might answer faster. It hadn't. Sylvene remained where she'd been kept since her capture, fed better, guarded lighter, told nothing beyond what she needed to know to stay hopeful without staying reckless. Whatever the Lunarveil made of an offer from the eighth Demon King, they were taking their time deciding whether it was worth a reply at all. I'd have worried more if I'd had the hours to spare for it.
I didn't, because Ophelia had asked Clarissa to send for me, and then asked again an hour later when I hadn't come fast enough, and a woman who'd spent two months flinching at footsteps in her own corridor did not develop that kind of urgency over nothing.
