Lyria called for Navaill, still laughing to herself. She was happy, and it distracted her from everything that had happened, and she wanted to hang on to that.
“You rang for me,” Navaill stated as he stepped into her room after a few moments.
“I did,” Lyria replied. She moved toward him and extended an arm, holding out the note for him to read.
“You look well,” he said, a note of surprise in his voice. He had seen her yesterday, her despair hanging over her, low like the branch of a tree weighed down by time.
Lyria just smiled as Navaill took the note and began to read. He chuckled, then folded it back up after he was done and handed it back.
“The Prince loves to write,” Navaill said. “He’s a bright boy. He has noticed that many nobles, and his father, communicate through official le
