The Hold's east tower room had Serin's things in it now.
Not visiting things — her things. The knitting on the chair that had never left. A second knitting project started and abandoned on the windowsill. Three books with her annotations in the margins. A photograph on the small table beside the bed: her and Davan Ashveil, young, before everything, the same photograph she'd left in the records room once and that had found its way here instead.
The east tower room was hers.
This was not discussed. It was simply true.
She sat at the east window when Nara came in, the city spread out below, both halves visible from this specific angle in this specific room.
"Davan's asleep," Nara said.
"I know," Serin said. "I heard." She held her tea. "She makes a sound when she's going under. A very s
