Sagiel leaned against the carriage post, straw between his teeth, his coat the same shade as the dusk behind him. He greeted Lucian with a nod that wasn't quite respect.

"Best trick," he said, "is keeping your face in front of her. The duchess forgets names faster than she forgives debts. Stand where she can't ignore you and agree to whatever she doesn't ask."

Lucian accepted the folded note Sagiel offered. The seal, dull red wax stamped with a crude sigil, flaked under his thumb. The handwriting looked intentionally careless, useful and ugly in the right way. Even the scent of cheap ink felt planned.

"You got this because I'm generous," Sagiel said, yawning. "Don't embarrass the signature."

Lucian watched him amble toward the road, hands deep in pockets, every step suggesting a man too idle to fail.

When the echo of his boots faded, Lucian pulled a small vial from his coat. The copper glass caught the alley's last strip of light, showing three short grooves etched along its side. Quenya hovered near his shoulder, translucent as breath.

"Here we go," he muttered.

He uncorked the vial. The liquid hit his tongue like burned metal; his throat clenched, voice tightening under the weight of it. Heat pulsed up his neck, and the familiar sound of himself thinned, dipped, and hardened into something rougher. He swallowed through the burn, showing nothing.

"Still hurts?" Quenya asked.

"Better than being caught."

He tucked the vial away, pushed off the wall, and climbed into the waiting carriage. The driver glanced back for instruction.

"Valemont mansion," Lucian said.

The wheels turned, crunching over gravel until the narrow street opened to the long bend ahead.

The mansion rose pale and windowed at the curve's end, hedges pressing close on both sides, rustling with dry leaves. The carriage slowed at the gate where a servant waited.

Lucian stepped down from the carriage. The gravel shifted under his boots. He paid the driver, who tipped his cap and turned the horses aside.

"Your name?" The guard asked.

"Lucian." He passed the letter forward.

The man checked the seal, gave it only the briefest glance, then studied Lucian's eyes longer than he should have. Finally, he motioned toward a shaded arbor near the garden.

"Follow me."

The path wound long through arches and courtyards, polished stone echoing with each step. The house was vast enough for silence to breathe between rooms. Lucian kept pace behind the servant, counting doors until the man stopped beside a small arbor facing the garden.

"Wait here." The servant's tone was clipped. "You'll be called."

Three others waited already. None spoke. One by one they were summoned toward the inner garden. None returned. Likely led out through another door. Lucian sat apart, hands folded.

His pulse stayed calm only because he forced it. He had no clear idea what this "reading" job involved. Sagiel's advice had stopped at posture and manners. From what Lucian gathered, it meant reading books aloud to people with too much time and fading eyes. He doubted Seris Valemont needed either excuse. Probably a rich-person's affliction, like buying another chair because the last one looked tired.

"You shouldn't have come here without more practice," Quenya murmured near his ear.

He smiled with a false bravodo. "Practice comes after risk."

Time stretched. Finally, the servant returned and motioned him to rise. "Your turn."

Lucian followed through a long corridor lined with portraits, every Valemont eye catching glimmers from the lamps. He forced his shoulders square, suppressing the reckless ease that usually carried him through things. When the inner doors opened, he stepped inside without speaking.

The room wasn't a study but a pavilion dressed to look modest. Curtains veiled the corners, lamplight softened the edges. Seris Valemont lounged on a couch, one leg crossed, a half-read novel in her lap and a glass of wine at her side. She looked Lucian's age—too young for this hobby, too still for it to be ordinary.

He stopped near the threshold and bowed, the gesture smooth, almost mechanical. She didn't look up.

"Your letter," she said.

He placed the fake recommenation letter that he forged by using some connection along with Sagiel's note on the small table beside her. She skimmed, set it aside, then raised her eyes. The first time he saw her this close, he caught himself watching too long. He looked away before it could show.

"Sit," she said.

He waited for her nod, then sat. His coat brushed the chair arm, neat and deliberate. She reached for a brown leather book from the pile beside her, thumbed to a page marked by a ribbon, and held it out.

"It's in Old Sedric," she said. "Read it aloud."

He took the book and frowned at the first line. The text wound through half-rhymes, antiquated vowels, and idioms that shifted mid-sentence. She hadn't given him something to enjoy. Perhaps to test pronunciation?

He'd the memory of reading this book before before—The Echo at Marefield, Sedron fiction, beloved for its careful sadness. A book about a voice looking back on a long life in a small town that never quite stayed still. The kind of story that felt safe until the air shifted and every memory began whispering its own secrets.

He skimmed the passage, mouth tightening. The writing demanded control—each phrase hinged on meaning that turned with breath and stress. She must have chosen it to test precision, not comprehension.

"'When the bell forgot the hour, the town forgot itself. Windows faced walls, doors met air, and no one spoke unless the wind repeated them first.'"

The phrasing tugged at his focus, vowels snagging on one another. He managed to keep the rhythm even as his throat rebelled.

He adjusted his throat—still strange from the drink—and began.

"'The town was built around a bell that no one rang anymore…'"

The sound came out rough but firm. The rhythm fell into place; he rode it easily, letting the words carry themselves.

Something shifted in her posture—barely there, gone before he could name it.

"Stop," Seris said. "You sound like a clerk counting coins. Try again."

Lucian blinked once. "As you wish."

He restarted, easing the weight in his tone.

"Too slow," she cut in. "Now it sounds like pity. The line isn't mourning anything."

He tried again.

"Too light," she said. "You've lost the shape of the sentence. Where's the break before 'anymore'?"

Lucian kept the book lowered for a moment. "Would you like me to read or conduct an autopsy?"

Her brows lifted faintly. "Both, if you're capable."

He bit back a sigh and began again.

Half a line in, she spoke once more. "That pause—wrong place."

He adjusted, continued.

"Still wrong."

The rhythm broke under her corrections. He could feel his own irritation sharpening like a splinter under skin. The voice he'd crafted—the disguise—threatened to crack.

He set the book down. "Perhaps you'd prefer to demonstrate."

Her gaze lifted slowly from the wine glass. "If I needed to, you wouldn't be here."

Silence. Then she gestured. "From the top."

He picked it up again, steadier this time, stripping away every trace of performance. The sound that came out was raw, almost flat, but alive enough to echo faintly off the curtains.

Seris didn't interrupt.

The page turned. The line about the baker watching his house collapse slid out clean, no stumble.

He cleared his throat again, found the rhythm, and carried the next lines.

Seris's glass tilted, wine circling slow. "You're imitating feeling, not understanding it."

He stopped. Let it go. Not worth it.

Her tone sharpened. "Do you think performance alone makes meaning?"

He kept his gaze on the page. Stay quiet. You're here for a job, not a quarrel.

Then she laughed once, low. "Perhaps whoever recommended you was... optimistic."

The words hit harder than they should. His mouth opened before sense could stop it. "Perhaps my lady confuses cruelty for discernment."

Silence folded between them. He felt it settle like cold air. Idiot. Should've shut up.

Seris's eyes lifted slowly, the edge of her smile gone. "Excuse me?"

He met her gaze, already regretting it. "You asked for interpretation. That was mine."

For a heartbeat, nothing moved. The tension thickened enough to taste. She pushed herself half upright, one hand on the armrest, as if deciding whether to stand or dismiss him. The chair creaked against the carpet.

"Do you often insult your employers before they decide whether to hire you?"

He said nothing. The smart answer had left him. She stared at him for a long moment, eyes unreadable. Then—three sharp knocks at the door.

A gray-haired butler stepped in, bowing lightly. "My lady, Mr. Gundal is here to see you."

For the first time since he entered, Lucian saw her expression falter. A small, precise shift—something between contempt and distaste, gone before it fully formed.

Who's this Gundal now? Never heard of him before.

She set the glass down. "Tell him I'll meet him in the east room."

The butler nodded and turned to Lucian.

"You may leave now," Seris said. "The butler will see you out."

He stood, pulse still loud in his ears, and placed the book back on the table. Safe to say that didn't go well.

The butler gestured, and Lucian followed.

She didn't look at him as he left.

At the gate, the butler stopped. "You'll receive message if selected. Until then, refrain from inquiries."

"Of course."

Though in his mind, another intentions were already forming.

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