Matteo di Ravelle spotted Selara approaching and tightened his grip on the cane. That alone was already an answer.
Selara halted in front of him without offering a smile, a greeting, or any of the polite scraps people scattered around halls like this one to avoid saying anything useful.
"Has my master come to Aurevane?"
Matteo's mouth twitched. He had aged well, or expensively, which in Aurevane usually meant the same thing. His gray coat had been cut with moneyed taste, his gold clasp polished enough to throw the hall's light back at it, and his face wore the weathered patience of a man who'd spent too many years outlasting clever people.
"That is a rather unusual topic for a gathering like this, Selara. And a rather unique way to greet an old friend, I'll grant you - no preamble at all."
"You heard the question."
"I did. So did everyone within three steps, which is precisely why I'm choosing not to answer it in the same tone you used to ask it."
