Atlas closed the door to Chain's rooms and stood there a second longer than he needed to. Inside he could hear Clara's low voice and the soft rustle of covers being pulled up. Chain said something too quiet to catch. Clara answered with a short laugh. Then it went still.
He rubbed the back of his neck and walked toward the workroom. The corridor lamps were already lit, throwing long yellow patches across the stone. Someone had left a window open at the far end; cool air carried the faint smell of the kitchen gardens and woodsmoke from the lower yards. The palace settled into its night sounds—boots on distant stairs, a servant's muttered apology, the creak of a shutter being secured against the damp.
Eli was already at the desk when he came in. She had one boot kicked off under the table and was scowling at a list.
