“Physician Tal,” he said pleasantly. “I did not realize you were occupied.”
His gaze shifted to Sabine.
“Lady Sabine. I hope you are recovering well. The recent trials have been so demanding. We would all hate to see one of our marked brides distressed by misunderstandings.”
Tal’s face went blank again.
Sabine stood.
“Physician Tal has been very helpful,” she said.
“I’m sure,” Maelor replied.
The courtesy in his voice made the warning underneath it worse.
Sabine left without hurry.
She kept her pace even through two corridors and a stair before the weight of what Tal had confirmed caught up with her.
The body had been sealed quickly.
The official account had not matched the damage.
Lucien had walked out with blood on his hands that was not only his own.
This was no tragic fever. No palace sorrow polished into legend.
This was structure.
She reached her chamber, shut the door, crossed to the writing desk, and took out the jewelry case where she had hidden her notes beneath the false bottom.
She opened it.
The compartment was empty.
Not empty.
Something had been left in place of the pages.
A small carved bird lay in the hollow where her notes had been, its wings tucked close to its body, the workmanship fine enough to suggest the same hand that had shaped the fox. But one wing had been darkened black from tip to shoulder.
Sabine stopped breathing for a second.
Someone had entered her chamber.
Someone had found the notes.
Someone had taken only the pages that mattered and left the bird where she could not fail to see it.
The fox had felt like watching. A quiet sign. A line of attention.
This felt like a warning.
Or a threat.
She lifted the bird carefully. The black wing had not been scorched. It had been stained with deliberate care, the darkness too clean to be accidental.
Someone wanted her to understand that they had been in the room, had touched what she had hidden, and could do worse next time.
