The shattered limestone of the courtyard pillar still rained white dust onto the overgrown flagstones when Master Douglas stepped out from the shadow of the dead sycamores.
His black traveler’s cloak dragged through the knee-high weeds without catching on the thorny burs, his unrefined iron medallion clinking faintly against the bone buttons of his tunic. He had watched the carriage roll away down the avenue, and he had heard every bitter word Grace Harper had thrown into the drafty corridor. Stopping five paces from the edge of the terrace where Bryce stood with his bleeding, bruised knuckles, Douglas surveyed the cracked masonry with a thin, mocking smile that pulled at his facial burn scars.
"A harsh audit from a merchant girl," Douglas murmured, his voice grating like dry shale dragg
