A cough tore through the heavy silence of the guest wing. It was the kind of sound that would usually earn some sympathy, or at least a small wince, but Zarius only felt his annoyance growing. He stood with his back to the wardrobe in Philia's bedchamber, his arms locked across his chest, watching the physician flutter about like a moth caught in a draft.
The evening had been going fine, actually, better than fine, if he thought about what had just happened in the study, until Flio had appeared at dinner. He had looked almost apologetic as he dropped the news: the one the King sent had succumbed to the Northern damp. Apparently, Philia had been found huddled in a heap of damp silks, shivering so violently he'd nearly rattled his teeth out of his skull. That was why he couldn't enjoy dinner.
