Mei
The West Wing study felt different from Alaric's bedroom. Quieter in a deeper way. Less lived in; more controlled. Shelves lined with books that had not been opened in some time. A large desk positioned near the window. Heavy curtains drawn halfway to let in a controlled strip of daylight.
And the scent. Warm oils. Ground herbs. Something sharp beneath it that Mei recognized from Mira's instructions; arnica. It lingered in the air like medicine waiting to be used.
Alaric sat near the center of the room in his chair; already positioned as if he had been expecting this. His posture was straight; hands resting lightly on the armrests. His expression unreadable. Mei stood a short distance away; her hands clasped together more out of instinct than necessity.
