Isole was waiting at the villa gate.
She had her books under her arm and the composed morning look she brought to formal occasions — not stiff, just precise, the Silver Wood's sense of ceremony sitting quietly in her posture without announcing itself. She looked at him when he came through the gate and fell into step beside him without discussion.
They walked up the hill together.
The path was busy at this hour. Students moving toward the Academic District from every villa tier, the flow of a large institution's population converging on a single point. Most of them were quiet. The notification had been read. They knew what kind of assembly this was going to be.
"Mara made the fourth version of the blend this morning," Vane said.
Isole looked at him.
"It's better than the third."
