Fylon came at the seventh hour.
He stood in the doorway of Hecuba's chamber, his hands at his sides, his face carrying the weight of a man who had been sleeping badly for weeks.
"Any closer?" he said.
Hecuba was sitting by the window, her weaving in her lap. She had not woven in days. The shuttle rested between her fingers without moving.
"Much closer," she said.
Fylon waited. She did not continue.
"How close."
"Close enough."
He shifted his weight. "Queen Hecuba, I need to know if — "
"You are not the spy, Fylon."
His shoulders dropped. Not dramatically — a fraction. The release of a tension he had been carrying since the day he put his own name on the list.
"How do you know."
"I know."
He looked at her. She looked back. Her eyes were steady. Not warm. Not cold. The eyes of a woman who had spent forty years reading faces and had stopped needing to explain how she reached her conclusions.
"Don't worry," she said. "Focus on the lists. Leave the spy to me."
