Caelum Vance
The roses in the south gallery had been replaced sometime in the afternoon.
I noticed this the way I noticed everything in Ashenveil Keep — with complete and total indifference. They were perfect, as always. Deep crimson, not a petal out of place, their fragrance precisely calibrated to the dimensions of the gallery. Maren had chosen that variety forty years ago because I had mentioned, once, that I found the smell of roses tolerable.
I had not mentioned it since.
I stood at the tall south window and watched the last of the sun bleed out of the sky. The courtyard below was settling into the blue-grey of early dusk, the fountain still running, the gravel still raked into precise lines, the two day guards finally retreating as the light failed. Everything in Ashenveil was al
