That was the first thing. He was still one inch from her face and he had not moved, and the temperature in his gold eyes was the thing she had no category for.... the absolute stillness, the fire before it caught.... and the room was very quiet around both of them and she was acutely aware that she was the only other person in it.
"Tell me their names."
His voice was even. Completely even. That was what made it frightening.... not the anger, because the anger was not on the surface. What was on the surface was the flat, unhurried quality she had spent three weeks cataloguing, the same quality he brought to correspondence and courtyard training and kissing her against a wall. It was the same voice.
That was the problem.
She had learned, in three weeks, that the voice did not change. The temperature underneath it changed. The voice stayed.
"No," she said.
He looked at her.
"Vivienne."
