By the time the sky over the gardens had deepened to a muted amber, Chris felt the thin edge of the afternoon wearing at him. The food had taken the worst of the headache away, but it hadn't done much for the weight in his limbs. He gathered his empty glass and stood; Rowan automatically reached for the basket and fell in beside him as they headed back toward the private wing.
"See?" Rowan said, nudging the basket with his hip. "Sunlight. Actual air. Didn't kill you."
"Yet," Chris muttered, rubbing at the back of his neck. "Give it time."
They had almost reached the side door when Rowan's phone buzzed, a muted chime that broke the hush of the corridor. He glanced down at the screen; the teasing line of his mouth flattened. "Schedule for tomorrow," he said quietly.
Chris glanced sideways. "And?"
