The room was exactly as they'd left it the night before; the low table, long bench, the wide window looking out over the square that was denser now than it had been at midday, the crowd moving in that loosened, directionless way that came from hours of celebrating. Someone, probably the tavern maid, had left honeyed figs on the table which Phaeryl couldn’t help but eat three of them.
Xhanes sat beside her; not at the far end of the bench and definitely not at a polite distance. Beside her, close enough that she was aware of him the way you were aware of a fire in a room, not looking at it directly but always knowing where it was.
"You walked away from the procession," she said.
"You walked away first."
"I had no standing to be in it. You did."
"Standing is a matter of interpretation."
