Seventy Four
Callen smiled as he watched Zaria dress in the clothes he’d had tailored for her. The trousers fit neatly under her boots, the soft blouse falling in gentle folds over the curve of her stomach. It wasn’t court fashion, not by a long shot but it was hers. Practical. Comfortable. Designed for movement, not display. River’s design, adjusted for a growing child. He leaned against the bedpost, arms folded loosely across his chest. “I take it the seamstress passed inspection,” he remarked. Zaria studied herself in the mirror. For a moment, the corners of her mouth lifted, just a little. Then something flickered across her face. Grief, sharp and sudden, like a shadow passing over glass. She smoothed a hand over the gentle curve of her stomach, thumb tracing the faint line of a seam. for a
- Writer
