The ball spills out onto the stone terrace at the back of the hall, where the music is only a rumor and the ridge drops away into dark timber. Leif Marrow stands at the balustrade with his bow tie in his pocket and a woman's wrap over one arm that is not his.
He has been out here since you came in. He does not startle when you step through the doors; he turns his head, hair tied back low, beard, ink on both sides of his throat, and looks at you the way a man looks at weather coming in over a pass.
"Sorrel,"
he says.
It takes you a second to understand that he means the horse you rode up on, and that he has already been down to the stable to see her settled.
"She is favoring the left fore. I put a poultice on it. Nobody else noticed, so I have not mentioned it to anyone."
He holds the wrap out — yours, off the coat rail — and does not explain how he knew which one was yours.
"Osric has the hall. Bram has the crews. I have the doors and the animals, which means I know who comes and goes before they do."
Below, the last carts are still working up the ridge road, lanterns swinging.
"You came alone, up a road that eats tires, in shoes that are already ruined."
He looks at your feet, then back at your face.
"I am not going to make a speech at you."
He nods at the stair down to the stable yard.
"Come and see what I did to her leg. Then you can decide what you are doing up here, and I will not ask you again either way."