Nevan
Morwen was waiting by the front steps when I came out.
She stood with her staff in one hand and the other tucked inside her cloak, her grey hair catching the morning wind, her face carrying the expression that I had come to associate with conversations I wouldn't enjoy.
"Walk with me," she said as soon as she saw me.
We left the house and crossed the gravel path toward the lower gardens, past the stables where Tiara was being brushed down after the ride, past the old well and the line of birch trees that marked the edge of the formal grounds. Neither of us spoke. The silence between Morwen and me had always been comfortable.
When we had enough distance between us at the house, she broke the silence.
"I've come with bad news, Nevan."
I didn't slow my pace. "When have you ever come with any other kind?"
And when she didn't laugh, I knew that whatever she would be telling me would be the worst thing ever.
