By the time they returned to his suite, the sun was already sliding lower, washing the latticed windows in copper light. Chris's head was full of corridors, secret security rotations, and the faint ache of walking more than he'd realized. Marta had left him with a tray of fruit, bread, and a pot of coffee, promising a proper meal later; Rowan took up his post outside the door with the patience of a statue.
On the low table lay a single folded note stamped with Dax's seal. Chris broke it open with a thumb and read the short message:
'Meetings dragged. Will be busy until late. Don't wait up.'
There was no signature, just the heavy script, clear but oddly elegant, every stroke deliberate. And the scent of dark spice with a warm undertone.
