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“The solarium’s eastern panes are still covered in grime. Briar found two servants willing to clean them, but the outer surface cannot be reached safely without a proper line and someone who understands the roof.”
“Speak to Joran.”
“He told me roof access requires your permission.”
“Then you require my permission, not sunlight.”
“I require both.”
I study her across the map. Her pale blue eyes meet mine without wavering. Respectful, according to the narrowest interpretation of household conduct. Not submissive.
“The roof remains iced,” I say. “No servant will climb it until Joran considers it safe.”
“The seedlings need more light.”
“The seedlings are not members of my household.”
“They may become medicines for members of your household.”
“That does not make them less capable of waiting.”
“Plants do not recognize rank, Lord Morwen’thir.”
“Everything in this stronghold recognizes rank.”
“Your mildew does not.”
The chaos magic beneath my palm ripples. One watch post on the map bends sideways before I force it upright.
Fiona notices. Her gaze drops to my hand, then returns to my face. She has seen enough of my magic to understand that it is not decorative. She has not seen enough to understand its reach.
Most humans retreat when chaos stirs.
Fiona reaches into the folds of the cloth.
I prepare to stop her if she produces another root ball.
Instead, she draws out a flower.
The tagetes is offensively bright. Its clustered petals burn gold and orange against the dark room, carrying the stubborn color of a southern summer into a mountain winter that should have killed it. She must have coaxed the bloom from one of the neglected plants discovered in the solarium or brought it among her cuttings from Lowtown.
Before I can ask what she intends, she steps beside the table and places it directly on Vesper’s Peak.
The flower lies across the strategic pass, covering three supply marks and half the road to the lower gate.
“Remove that.”
She considers the map as if improving it. “It was grim.”
“It is a military assessment.”
“It remains grim.”
“Fiona.”
“Even strategy needs color, Lord Morwen'thir, or it becomes as barren as your heart.”
The insult is delivered in the tone she might use to diagnose a fever.
