Vesha didn't sleep that night either, near as I could tell. When I came back to the archive an hour before dawn she was exactly where I'd left her, except the folio had migrated to the table's center and someone — her, almost certainly, though she'd deny fussing over it if asked — had weighted its corners with a pair of old inkwells to keep it from closing on its own.
"The line still hasn't faded," she said, without looking up. "I checked it twice more since you left. Once by lamplight, once by the grey coming through the east window, in case the first was some trick of a single kind of light. It reads the same both ways, my lord. Fresh ink on a page decades old, and no one in this castle owns a hand that matches it."
"Then someone wants it found."
