That morning when Alaric left.
The library smelled faintly of lemon oil and old vellum, with the steady crackle of a low fire from the hearth. Light streamed through tall arched windows, dust motes floating like lazy snowflakes. I sat perched on the edge of a dark oak table, ledger open, as Renato stood across from me—gloved hands resting on the back of a chair, his expression as properly neutral as always, but with a flicker of curiosity in his dark eyes.
“I took a walk around the western fields this morning,” he said evenly. “The soil is good but tired. Rotation’s been neglected, and the livestock pens nearby are beginning to wear out the ground. If we intend to expand the farm, there’s a decision to make: buy new land, or find a way to rejuvenate what we have.”
I smiled faintly, flip
