When Lucavion and the others were having "fun", a certain story was moving on a different location.
—CRACKLE!
The lamp had burned down a finger's width since Priscilla last looked at it.
Past the shutters the evening bell had rung and been ignored, and the Academy had gone quiet around them. Papers covered the low table and most of the floor beside it, and Idena had stopped apologizing for stepping on them an hour ago. Every sheet was ruled in the Scribes' narrow hand, times down the left margin and posts across the top. Priscilla had laid them against one another for so long that the columns had stopped being figures. They were a corridor now, and she could walk it.
"Your Highness."
Idena kept the title even behind a closed door. She said it quietly from the other side of the table, her tea gone cold at her elbow.
"You've read that line three times."
"Four."
"And it's the same as it was?"
