Three days after the conversation in the empty hall, Aria ran into Rowan in the least dramatic place possible: halfway up the stairs, carrying a basket of laundry.
Literally ran into him. The corner of the basket jammed into his ribs; her shoulder bounced off his chest. Clean shirts tried to make a break for it.
“Sorry,” she blurted, grabbing for fabric.
He caught the basket before it flipped. “You’re attempting murder by linen now?”
“New tactic,” she said, cheeks heating. “Very stealthy.”
He shifted the weight of the basket easily to one hip. “You’re doing Mara’s job now?”
“I owed her,” Aria said. “She took my side in an argument with a pot.”
“I heard the pot won,” Rowan said.
“Only on technicalities.”
He didn’t move out of the way. Instead, he jerked his chin toward the stairs.
