The rain had returned by sunrise, a steady, dismal drizzle that blurred the jagged pine silhouetted against the morning sky. Inside the lower vaulted archives of Vaugard Manor, the air remained bone-chillingly cold, smelling of ancient parchment, ozone, and wet granite.
Lalaine sat at the massive central workbench, her fingers moving with smooth, confident speed across a fresh sheet of thick linen paper. The moon-salve Beta Barton had delivered the night before had done its job, her palms were completely healed, the raw, red skin restored to a healthy, soft ivory.
Standing across from her was Beta Barton, his sharp amber eyes tracking every stroke of her quill. His dark vest was immaculately tailored, his arms folded neatly across his chest as he observed the translation taking shape.
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