Page 165 of Zenith Tower

Rev found ink. Cosima flattened the hearing pages beneath two clean stones at the kitchen table. The sheets were creased from Delphine’s coat and damp at the edges, but the writing had survived.

Delphine drew Kieran’s folio from inside her coat and returned it to him. Its cover was damp and two pages had folded at the corners, but the measurements remained legible. Kieran held it against his chest with his good hand before setting it beside the hearing record.

“Two copies,” Cosima said. “One goes to the seat that certified Aldric’s annex. The other travels south with the filing Magnus sent. The original stays with Delphine unless she decides otherwise.”

Delphine had not released Lior’s hand. “It stays with me.”

The farmer sanded the first copied page and signed beneath the final line. His wife read every word before adding her name. By the time sunlight reached the eastern window, the night’s record existed in three sets instead of one.

I watched the wet ink lose its shine. Soon the same blacklines lay on three tables, beyond the reach of any single locked cabinet.

“Bed,” Hale said beside me.

His knuckles were wrapped in linen. A darkening bruise cut across one cheekbone, and exhaustion had roughened his voice.

“You first.”

“I slept against the cart wall.”

“You were unconscious for part of that.”

“Efficient.”

Kieran lifted his head from the chair. “I hate to interrupt whatever this is, but he’s right. You’re swaying.”

I looked down. When I straightened, the kitchen tipped hard to one side.

Hale guided me upstairs with one hand at my back.

I woke beneath a slanted roof with sunlight across the bed.

For several breaths I did not know where I was. There was a window beside me, square and plain, with old glass that bent the trees at its edges. No silver water moved through the walls. No bell sounded. From below came the muted strike of a knife against a cutting board and a laugh cut quickly short.

The quilt had been mended in six different fabrics. I ran my thumb over a crooked line of stitches until the room returned to its proper shape.

My dress lay folded over a chair, stiff with mud and dried water. Someone had left a clean shirt and a wool skirt beside it. The clothes smelled faintly of cedar. I changed, splashed my face from the pitcher, and followed the scent of bread downstairs.

Kieran sat at the kitchen table with his arm in a sling and a cup held between both hands. Color had returned to his face, though bruising showed above his collar. He looked up when I entered.

“You missed Hale making eggs.”

“Did they survive?”

“Technically.”

Hale set a plate in front of me. “He ate three.”

“I was gathering evidence.”

I pulled out the chair beside Kieran. The bread was dark and still warm in the center. Preserves shone red in a chipped white dish, and the steam rising from the eggs carried the sharp green scent of whatever herbs had been drying above the stove.

The ordinariness of it hurt more than I expected.

Kieran’s smile faded when he saw my face. He reached across the table and turned his hand palm up. I put mine in it.

“How bad is the shoulder?” I asked.

“Angry. Attached. The farmer says I’m forbidden from being heroic with it for at least a fortnight.”