“I want to see it too,” I said.
Draven Vescari finished the sandwich I had given him.
“Then we agree.”
It should have been a satisfactory end to lunch. Instead, I found myself watching him wipe his fingers on a napkin, wondering what he would have said if I had asked for something less useful than transport and time to speak.
He caught me looking.
“Still hungry?”
“Not for sandwiches.”
His hand stopped beside his glass.
I looked down so quickly that my spoon struck the cup.
“I meant I’ve had enough bread.”
“Of course.”
I disliked the courtesy of that answer.
***
By 7 September, I had discovered that having a room of my own did not mean I knew what to do with an evening.
Two days earlier I had asked to move along the same courtyard corridor into a small suite: a bedroom, a sitt
