The king snapped his fingers, and the garden was gone.
They were back in the dining hall, in the same chairs, around the same long table — though the feast had not returned.
Only the gray dust of it remained, a faint outline of where roast and fruit had been before his footsteps rotted them to powder. The king, however, had changed.
The cold theatrical menace of the porch and the garden had drained away, and what sat at the head of the table now was something almost relaxed. Almost fond.
"Do you know," he said, lacing his pale fingers together, "how long it has been since someone beat me at one of my own games?"
"Given the state of your social calendar," Ebony said, "I'm going to guess a while."
"Centuries," he said, ignoring the jab with the serenity of a man who had enjoyed it. "Centuries, little Visitor.
