The heavy oak door of the study creaked open.
Lloyd stepped in, looking apologetic and confused. Behind him, a small figure followed. She was draped in a heavy, rough wool cloak that was clearly meant for traveling in foul weather, the hood pulled so far forward it obscured her entire face. She kept her head bowed low, her hands hidden within the folds of the fabric.
She looked like a servant terrified of delivering bad news.
Carcel sat behind his desk, his quill suspended over an invoice for lumber. He looked up, his eyes weary and rimmed with red from lack of sleep.
He looked at the figure.
He saw the way she stood. He saw the slight, nervous tapping of her foot beneath the hem of the cloak. He smelled, faintly but unmistakably, the scent of lavender and rain that had haunted his dreams for a week.
His heart stopped. Then it restarted with a violent, thudding rhythm that echoed in his ears.
