The dispatch from the Sovereign Record arrived before the sun was fully up.
Alistair was already at the table when the bird landed in the eastern window. Due was up too, pretending to read something else, and had been pretending for about an hour, which was Due's chosen method of waiting for something he refused to admit he was waiting for.
The bird dropped its paper and left without ceremony.
Alistair picked it up. The paper was the Record's coarse outer fold, and it always took a few seconds to soften before the ink became readable. He set it on the table and waited.
Due adjusted his collar.
"You can read it before I get there," said Due.
"I am going to."
"Read it slowly. I want to see your face when you reach the part I think is in there."
Alistair raised a brow at that, but he didn't ask. Due had been quietly betting on this dispatch for two weeks.
