Rowan was in his room, sitting at the small table by the window, slowly eating a late lunch of grilled chicken and rice. The afternoon light filtered through the heavy curtains, casting long shadows across the polished wooden floor. He had been alone for most of the day, his mind wandering between thoughts of his brothers and the strange pull he felt toward Isla.
A soft knock sounded at the door.
“Come in,” he said.
Isla entered quietly, still in her maid uniform, hands clasped in front of her. She looked a little nervous, as she always did when summoned to his room.
“You called for me, Rowan… I mean, Master Rowan,” she said, correcting herself quickly.
Rowan set down his fork and stood up, wiping his hands on a napkin. He gave her a small, warm smile.
“You can call me Rowan, Isla.”
