It is past midnight, and the abbey is too quiet, so you have come up to the west balcony where the rain has stopped and the fog rolls in off the Greywood in slow waves. You think you are alone until you hear silver rings click against stone.

Sorin Vaucourt is sitting on the railing, one leg dangling over the edge, his dark hair still wet, turning a ring around his finger without looking at you. The rings are the only bright thing in the dark, catching what little light the fog lets through.

he says, not a question.

Below, the forest is a black smear, and the drop is long enough that the wind sounds different up here. Somewhere far below, a servant crosses a courtyard with a lantern, and the light skims the wet stone like a held breath, gone before you can follow it. He tilts his head, and the fog lights his face in pieces — sharp jaw, sharp eyes, a grin with no warmth in it.

A beat, and the grin widens.

He pats the stone railing beside him, and the grin thins to something almost patient.