She wrote it by hand.
This was unusual enough that Zane noticed immediately — Maren's contributions to the archive were typed, dictated, organized with the same precision she brought to everything. But this was paper, and ink, and Maren's handwriting, which Zane realized, watching her from across the library, he had almost never seen.
She wrote for most of an afternoon. Crossed out more than she kept. By evening she had four pages, and she folded them, and sealed them, and sat holding the envelope for a long time before she spoke.
"I need someone to carry this," she said. "To the Marsh territory. Not through the Ledger's channels — this isn't Ledger business. Personal."
"I'll take it," Zane said.
"Not you," Maren said. Not unkindly. "You're too connected to the archive work. If Dena s
