Finn
The next day, I knock on Xander’s bedroom door with a plate of food in my hands.
“Enter,” he calls.
I march inside with my best approximation of the staff’s invisible poise, then fake a curtsy before presenting the requested breakfast: toast with jam, a pastry, and a steaming cup of coffee. His personal steward, a tall, pale man whose name I don’t know, stares at me in blank confusion. I don’t see a single sign of Xander.
“Uh—”
Xander steps out from behind a hinged partition, fixing his tunic, and laughs. “Remind me, did I bet that you would make me breakfast after another six pints?”
I drop the platter on the low table in front of the barely lit hearth. “No, but I wish I had.”
He sits on the couch and begins picking up the elements one by one. “A child could have done a superi
