She was at the Hold when I arrived on Tuesday.
Not Idra Mael. Someone else. Someone I had not been told about in advance — which was itself a thing I noticed, because Cael Orin told me about everyone in advance.
She was in the entrance court when I came through the gate. Talking to Zevran.
Close the way people got close when they had history — the specific geometry of two people who knew each other's weight in a room. She was laughing. He was not, but he was listening in the particular way he listened when something had his attention.
She had dark hair, cut short. She was his age. She carried herself like someone who had never needed a room to validate her.
I recognised the type.
I was the type.
I stopped walking.
Zevran saw me. Something crossed his face — not guilt, not quite. So
