He was sitting. Drinking coffee. One elbow on the counter. Shoulders slightly sloped. He looked up and froze, then he was on his feet in an instant.
“Arthur,” he said. “You are back?”
I nodded. “Yes.”
He studied me like he was assessing a wound. Or a miracle. Or both.
“You look,” he said slowly, “unreasonably well.”
That was his version of shock.
“I have a lot to tell you,” I said.
His mouth twitched. “I can imagine. You look… glowy.”
I frowned. “That’s not a real descriptor.”
“It is when applied to you,” he said. “Also, you’re smiling. That is deeplysuspicious.”
I hadn’t realized I was. That explained a lot.
Caliban’s gaze shifted past me, toward the corridor that led to my chambers. “Is Artemis here?”
“Yes.”
“Alive?”
“Yes.”
“Uninjured?”
“Yes.”
He nodded once, then pretended to inspect his coffee like that was all he had needed to know.
“What happened?” he asked.
I hesitated. “You were worried.”
He didn’t look at me. “No.”
I waited.
“Marginally,” he added.
That was Caliban admitting to fear.
I stepped closer and rested my hand on the counter. “Things are changing,” I said. “For me. For us. For the house.”
His gaze snapped back to mine. “I thought they might.”
I cleared my throat. “Hadrian tried to kill us.”
Caliban showed no other reaction but the stiffening of his shoulders.
“He wanted power,” I continued. “The old kind. The kind my family once used. For generations, our clan traded things that were never ours to trade. The lives of children. Years ofhealth. Vitality siphoned quietly away from others so we could grow stronger.”
Caliban’s jaw tightened.
