Seraphine’s message contained a time, a location, and no explanation.
South glasshouse. Four twenty. Alone.
Wren received it through a Dusk attendant while reviewing the final kitchen allocation for the vote-day reception.
She read it once and placed it beneath the supply list.
Maren looked at the folded paper.
“You going?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because refusing a private conversation creates a public interpretation.”
Maren returned to the bread dough. “That sounded like Edric.”
Wren looked at her.
Maren did not apologize.
At four eighteen, Wren entered the south glasshouse.
The structure had once supplied winter herbs for the Alpha wing, but the newer greenhouse near the kitchens had made it mostly ornamental. Snow pressed against the glass panels while weak afternoon light turned t
