“On what basis?”
“On mine.”
A pause. Measured.
“You’re asking the council to accept a change in structure without consultation?”
“I’m informing them of it,” I correct.
Another pause. Longer.
“And the girl,” he says.
“She remains.”
“As what?”
“A variable.”
“That is not a position,” he says.
“It is the only one that matters.”
He studies me. Trying to determine where this ends. It doesn’t.
“Very well,” he says finally. “I will relay your position.”
“Do that.”
He stands. Hesitates. “If your son returns?—”
“He won’t.”
“And if he does?”
I meet his gaze. “It will be handled.”
He nods once. Leaves.
By the time the room clears, the house has shifted into afternoon. Quieter, but not still. It’s never still. I step out of the study, no escort.
The central hall opens before me. Staff move along its edges. Guards at their positions. Everything is as it should be.
Until I see movement at the far end.
Not staff. Not a guard.
Her.
Evie Brennan stands near the window that overlooks the garden corridor. Still. Not waiting. Not wandering. Placed.
She doesn’t see me immediately, which is unusual. Because she sees everything.
I stop. She turns a moment later.
And there it is. Recognition. Not surprise. Not fear. Just awareness. She holds my gaze. Longer than she should. Longer than anyone here would. That’s the first problem.
The second is the thought that follows. Uninvited, immediate. What would she look like without the structure she carries so carefully.
