Chapter 41: Terms of Safety
Later, after breakfast, the quiet returned.
Not the delicate hush of porcelain and banter, but something more precise—contained, professional, edged with the scent of old paper, ink, and the faint citrus of whatever diffuser Serathine insisted on using in formal spaces. The kind of quiet that filled rooms where decisions were made without raising voices.
Lucas sat in one of the low-backed chairs near the window of Serathine’s private office. The curtains were half-drawn, letting in filtered light that cast pale lines across the dark wood of the floor.
Trevor stood by the sideboard, pouring a second round of coffee into porcelain that matched nothing in the house. He wasn’t rushed. He never was when he didn’t need to be.
Serathine had excused herself after breakfast—gracefully, of course, with a comment about a call from the Winter Ministry that needed "finessing." But the look she gave Trevor before she left was anything but casual.
He’ll tell him. Do it carefully.
She hadn’t said it aloud. She hadn’t needed to.
Now it was just the two of them.
Trevor brought the coffee over and handed Lucas his cup without a word. Then he sat across from him, legs crossed, one arm draped over the side like he was preparing for either a confession or a negotiation—maybe both.
Lucas took a sip, then set the cup down.
He didn’t speak first.
Trevor glanced at the window, then back at him.