Sera had a problem.
The problem was that there were two of them.
Not Styrmir — Styrmir was one person and one person was a manageable quantity. The problem was the other two delegates, who had arrived in the same carriage and had been installed in the east wing's guest rooms and who were — separately and collectively — creating in Sera's professional attention the specific, uncomfortable quality of a compass placed between two equally strong magnetic fields.
The first was Pellin.
Pellin was forty-three years old and had the specific, compact quality of a man who had been on many diplomatic missions and had developed, through those missions, the easy, attentive warmth of someone who was comfortable in any room and genuinely interested in most people. He had sandy hair with gray at the edges and a voice that had the depth of a man who was used to being listened to and used that depth considerately rather than presumptuously.
He had complimented the breakfast tray arrangement.
He had complimented it with the specific, detailed quality of someone who had actually looked at it rather than performing appreciation, and Sera had felt the compliment in the specific location of her professional pride and had thought: oh.
The second was Sorra.
Sorra was forty-one years old and had the dark, sharp quality of a woman who moved through rooms with the focused efficiency of someone for whom everything had a purpose and the purpose was worth pursuing. She had looked at the household's organizational system — the specific arrangement of the morning preparation, the schedule visible in the rhythm of the kitchen and the corridor and the timing of the trays — and had said, to Sera directly:
"Your household runs well. I can see the system in it. Who designed it?"
And Sera had said: "Years of iteration, my Lady."
And Sorra had said: "Good answer."
And Sera had thought: oh, this is a problem.
She had conveyed the problem to Wren at the eighth bell.
"Both of them," she said. "I like 'em both."
"Both?" Wren said.
"Pellin complimented the tray and Sorra appreciated the system and I do not know where to look when both of them are in the same room."
"They are both considerably older than you," Wren said.
"I am aware."
"And noble."
"Also aware."
"And here on a diplomatic—"
"Wren," Sera said.
"Yes?"
"I am not asking for your assessment. I am sharing my situation."
Wren looked at her.
She said: "I see."
She went back to her work.
"Which one?" she said, after a moment.
"I told you, I don't know—"
"No, I mean — if you had to choose. Right now. One or the other."
Sera looked at the corridor.
She said: "Pellin complimented the arrangement of the breakfast tray."
"Pellin, then."
"But Sorra appreciated the system."
Wren closed her eyes.
"Sera," she said.
"Yes?"
"Go and prepare the morning rooms."
Sera went to prepare the morning rooms.
She thought about it the entire time.
— — —
Selfi had conducted her assessment of the Advisory Consultant at the seventh bell.
She had conducted it in the specific, unhurried way she conducted assessments of things she was suspicious of — with the patient, comprehensive attention of someone who was not looking for a reason to approve and was not looking for a reason to disapprove, but was looking for whatever was actually there.
What was actually there was: a young man of twenty-three with winter-pale eyes and dark gold hair and the specific, settled quality of someone who had arrived somewhere he intended to be and was comfortable with the intending.
He had greeted her correctly.
He had noted the household's arrangement with the attentiveness she would have expected from someone whose profession was attention.
He had, when Oswin had crawled toward him at a speed that adults consistently underestimated until they had approximately three seconds to act, crouched and received the small person without flinching, which Selfi logged as a data point.
She had reported to Lady Elowen at the ninth bell.
"Well?" Lady Elowen had said.
"Nothing alarming," Selfi had said.
Lady Elowen had looked at her.
"Nothing alarming," she had repeated.
"His background documentation is consistent. His conduct in the palace sessions was correct. His professional standing at the Veldrathi court is confirmed." Selfi had paused. "His personal conduct—" another pause "—is also consistent. Consistently directed."
Lady Elowen had looked at her for a moment.
"I see," she had said.
— — —
Lady Elowen had found Gorgina on the way to the dining area.
She had found her at the corridor turn — not arranged, not a planned interception, only the specific, organic adjacency of two people who lived in the same building and were moving toward the same destination.
She had fallen into step beside her daughter.
She had said, in the conversational tone she used when she was saying something she intended to be heard but not marked:
"The Advisory Consultant Voss appears to be settling in well."
Gorgina had said nothing.
"He is — attentive," Lady Elowen had said. "I notice he is particularly attentive in certain directions."
Gorgina had looked at her.
Lady Elowen had looked ahead.
"I am simply observing," she had said, "that a wife who allows her husband's attention to wander elsewhere cannot then be surprised when it wanders. Leashes," she had added, with the specific, precise mildness of a woman delivering a point through the most concentrated available mechanism, "are for the maintenance of things one wants to keep."
She had turned into the dining room.
Gorgina had stood in the corridor for three seconds.
Then she had followed.
— — —
The first breakfast had begun quietly.
This was deceptive.
Gerffron arrived at the breakfast table at the seventh bell with the specific, slightly cautious quality of a man who had assessed the morning's social geography and was aware that it had changed and who was managing the awareness without yet knowing what it would produce.
The east wing guests had their own breakfast schedule — the household had arranged this, partly for practical reasons and partly for the specific, practical wisdom of someone who understood that introducing all the variables simultaneously was not the optimal approach.
Pellin and Sorra were in the east wing dining room.
Styrmir was not.
Styrmir was at the main table.
He was there when Gerffron arrived — already seated, already with tea, with the easy, unhurried quality of someone who had found his position and was in it.
Gerffron looked at him.
Styrmir looked at him.
"Good morning," Styrmir said.
"Good morning," Gerffron said.
He sat down.
Gorgina arrived four minutes later.
She arrived in the Duke's coat — the formal morning version, the deep black — with the compressed, forward-moving quality of someone who had made a decision about how they were going to conduct themselves today and was executing it.
She sat.
She did not look at either of them immediately.
She looked at her correspondence.
The breakfast proceeded.
It proceeded in the specific, slightly over-managed quiet of three people conducting the ordinary domestic ritual of eating in the morning while each of them was managing something that had nothing to do with the food.
Then Gorgina looked at Gerffron's plate.
"You haven't eaten," she said.
"I have," he said.
"You've had tea and one piece of toast."
"That is eating."
"That is the minimum available definition of eating." She reached for the serving dish. "You should have the eggs. You've been at the palace since the third bell every morning for two months. You need more than toast."
She served eggs onto his plate.
He looked at the eggs.
He looked at Gorgina.
He said: "Thank you."
He picked up his fork.
From the other side of the table, Styrmir looked at Gerffron's plate.
He looked at the eggs.
He reached for a different dish.
"The spiced potatoes," he said, pleasantly, serving a portion onto Gerffron's plate beside the eggs. "You mentioned once that you liked them. The kitchen makes them particularly well here."
Gerffron looked at the potatoes.
He looked at the eggs.
He said: "I — yes. Thank you."
A pause.
Gorgina looked at the plate.
She looked at Styrmir.
She reached for the bread basket.
"The morning bread," she said, adding two slices to the plate with the specific, deliberate quality of someone making a decision rather than an offer. "You need the grain."
Gerffron looked at the bread.
He looked at the plate.
The plate was getting full.
"I—" he started.
Styrmir reached for the preserved fruit.
"The plum preserve," he said, adding it to the side of the plate. "Good for digestion. Particularly important when someone has been working long mornings."
"He doesn't need—" Gorgina started.
"He mentioned indigestion last week," Styrmir said pleasantly. "The plums address that."
"He mentioned—"
"We had a conversation," Styrmir said, in the same pleasant tone, "about the palace kitchen's tendency toward heavy sauces. The plums counteract."
Gorgina looked at him.
Gerffron looked at the plate.
The plate had eggs and spiced potatoes and two slices of bread and plum preserve and was now receiving, from Gorgina's reaching hand, a portion of the soft cheese that the estate's kitchen prepared every morning.
"The cheese," she said. "For the protein."
"He has protein from the eggs," Styrmir said.
"The eggs are Styrmir Voss's contribution," Gorgina said. "I don't require—"
"I served the eggs," Gorgina said.
"I observed," Styrmir said.
"Then observe correctly. I served the eggs first."
"I served the potatoes before you served the cheese."
"You served the potatoes after the eggs."
"Chronologically the potatoes preceded the cheese by—"
"Gerffron," Gorgina said, turning to him, "tell him that the eggs were served first."
"Gerffron," Styrmir said simultaneously, turning to him, "tell her that the potatoes—"
Both of them were looking at him.
Gerffron looked at his plate.
His plate had eggs, spiced potatoes, two slices of bread, plum preserve, and soft cheese and was now receiving, from both sides simultaneously — Gorgina's left hand and Styrmir's right hand arriving at the plate in the same moment — two different items that landed with the specific, unfortunate proximity of a collision.
The sliced cold meats from Gorgina's hand.
The pickled vegetables from Styrmir's hand.
They landed on top of each other in the center of the plate with a sound.
Gerffron looked at the plate.
He looked at the cold meats.
He looked at the pickled vegetables.
He looked at the eggs.
He looked at the potatoes.
He looked at the bread.
He looked at the preserve.
He looked at the cheese.
He looked at the ceiling.
"I am not," he said, to the ceiling, in the specific, flat tone of a man who has arrived at the end of his available patience, "a horse."
Neither of them said anything.
"I am not a horse and this is not a feeding trough and I have been sitting at this table for fifteen minutes and my plate has accumulated enough food for three people and I — I cannot — I am leaving."
He stood.
He picked up his tea.
He took one piece of the bread from the plate.
He walked out of the dining room.
The dining room was quiet.
Gorgina looked at the plate.
Styrmir looked at the plate.
They looked at each other.
Neither of them said anything.
Gorgina picked up her correspondence.
Styrmir picked up his tea.
The breakfast continued.
From the corridor, the sound of Gerffron eating his bread and walking at the same time, which was the specific, characteristic sound of a man who had decided that the kitchen was a better option than the dining room.