She was in the library.
At seven in the morning she was always in the library. This was the compound's established pattern — the morning belonging to Maren in the library the way the mornings belonged to Kira in her kitchen and to Darius at the river window and to me at the range.
She was in her chair.
The lamp at the correct angle.
When I came through the door she looked up and read my face in the way she read things — quickly, comprehensively, filing what she found.
She set down her book.
"Sit," she said.
I sat.
Darius sat beside me.
Zane stood at the door, which was where he had decided to position himself — present but not central, the archivist who had found the thing and was carrying it carefully.
"Tell me," Maren said. To me, not to them. Understanding already that the tel
