The tea was good.
The mini sandwiches were delicate without being insulting, the pastries were warm, and the mint tea had not poisoned Arion, which Dean considered thoughtful.
For almost fifteen minutes, nothing terrible happened.
That should have warned him.
Ilara placed her teacup down carefully.
Dean noticed it at once.
So did Arion.
The light through the windows remained the same. The ugly painting of the first temple council remained as tragic as ever. Hunter stood near the door with professional stillness, and the attendants had withdrawn far enough to give the conversation privacy without pretending they were not available.
Nothing had changed.
And yet everything had.
Ilara folded her hands in her lap. Her face, which had carried dry humor so naturally that Dean had almost begun to trust it, settled into something older. Quieter. Not solemn in the theatrical way priests liked to become solemn when they wanted people afraid.
Clear.
That was the word.
