Confrontations
Irenya sat with her elbows on the table, chin in her hands and an untouched dinner tray before her. Daylight retreated, leaving her in the gloom of one small bowl of lumen. She had felt herself slipping all day, slipping through the ebb and flow of excitement that had nothing to do with her, sliding around arrangements in which she would play no part. The air tingled, spiked with the twitter of busy servants preparing the citadel for an important visitor.
She had gone early that morning to the dining hall, desperate to anchor her pitching emotions, but the doors were already open. Lord Duikin was organising a stream of servants who were hurrying in and out, moving furniture, bearing flowers and trailing greenery. He hailed her from behind an armful of table linen.
‘Miss
