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I lean one shoulder against the table because my knees have begun quietly informing me that confinement wards, adrenaline, and escape tunnels are not ideal conditions for graceful endurance. The room tilts slightly before steadying again.
Corin notices instantly.
His head snaps toward me, gold still faintly visible around his pupils. “Isolde.”
“I’m fine.”
“You nearly fell.”
“I leaned.”
“That was not a strategic lean.”
Sable points the wooden spoon at him without turning around. “If you say the phrase ‘sit down before you collapse,’ I will personally hit you with this bowl.”
“I wasn’t going to say that.”
“You were thinking it loudly.”
Corin presses his lips together hard enough that I can see the effort it takes him not to argue.
I watch the restraint carefully.
Interesting.
“Come here,” Sable says, nodding toward the chair near the hearth. “I need to check you for tracking sigils before your terrifying admirer paces himself through the floorboards.”
Corin opens his mouth.
“Not. One. Word,” Sable warns.
He closes it again with exaggerated dignity.
I sit near the hearth while Sable kneels beside me with the ceramic bowl balanced on one thigh. The paste inside is acrid and green, thick with crushed rosemary, ash root, and something infernal underneath that prickles faintly against my skin before contact.
“Hold still,” she says.
“You say that exactly like a threat.”
“It is a threat.”
She pushes aside the collar of my dress near my shoulder and hisses softly.
“There you are,” she murmurs.
Corin crosses the room instantly. “What?”
Sable keeps studying the skin beneath my collarbone. “Tracking mark. Tiny one. Cleverly hidden.”
Rage flashes across Corin’s face so fast the room temperature seems to rise with it.
“Vaerith,” he says.
“Obviously Vaerith,” Sable replies. “The alternative is that Isolde enjoys recreational surveillance.”
“I don’t,” I say.
“Good. Terrible hobby.”
