The Roarke records annex had no proper heating after sunset.
Tavian Roarke removed his jacket and laid it across the back of a wooden chair anyway. Dust had settled on the sleeves before he noticed.
Three archive carts stood between the shelves.
The files from the council chamber had followed him downstairs. More waited on the floor beside an old copying machine. Every folder had been drawn from agreements Tavian considered his own work.
Vespera Morcant’s handwriting appeared in all of them.
Not on ceremonial pages.
In the margins.
She had recorded that one visiting elder became unreasonable when hungry and should never be scheduled past noon. Another would accept lower storage access if Roarke guaranteed that his widowed sister’s vehicles would not be searched by young Alpha guards
