Bramwell's POV
She came to the armory.
I was at the workbench — not the dagger, this time, but a longbow that one of the orphanage children had asked me to restring. I had found, in the last month, that doing small practical things with my hands was the only way to quiet the particular noise of leadership.
She knocked, which she rarely did. I told her to come in.
She came in and closed the door and stood for a moment without speaking. I set down the bow.
"Tell me," I said.
She set a file on the workbench.
I read it.
I read it a second time, more slowly.
My father's handwriting had always been large, generous, the handwriting of a man who took up space easily and without apology. I hadn't seen it in three years. Seeing the correspondent's reference to him — the patient maintains go
