A glimmer of light under the door of his apartment surprised her; she had not figured him as a night owl. She slid her letter, folded and sealed, under his door, wincing as thick vellum scraped across timber. All remained quiet on the other side. She tiptoed away. Before she had gone half a dozen paces, she heard the door open.
Gedric’s tall frame leaned through the doorway, silhouetted by the light. He stepped aside and beckoned her, stooping to retrieve her note as she walked by him into his austere anteroom. He was still fully dressed. He glanced at her riding leathers and interrupted her attempt to explain.
‘Keep your voice down; my wife and daughter are asleep. I could ask if riding at night is one of your pleasures, but I know it is not.’ He examined the name Elaaron written on the
