In Azgareth the hall had run long.
Elyndra walked out into the garden corridor and Zyran walks beside her without announcement, the way he had begun to do.
She did not remark on it.
They walked in the usual way they walk together, unhurried, without particular destination, the conversation finding its own shape.
”Nine,” she said.
He glanced at her.
”There were twelve of us when the selection started,” she said.
“Now nine. Moriah, Lothira and Viella are out.” She paused.
“And today…three withdrew on their own. They said they no longer wished for the crown.”
”Three,” he said.
”Three others had simply left.
Stood up, withdrawn their names, and gone home to whatever kingdoms had sent them and one more had been eliminated by the queen.
Now it’s just five of us left.” She looked at the garden below the walkway, the old trees, the still pond.
“It moves faster than I expected.”
”It always does,” he said.
“The selection is designed to.”
She just looked at him.
They walked a little further.
He said something about the remaining schedule, the tests that were still to come, the timeline for the final selection.
She listened and asked questions when she had them and kept the rest of what she was thinking where it needed to stay.
Then she heard footsteps coming from the direction of the east corridor.
Deliberate, unhurried, belonging to someone who moved through this palace like they owned the parts they were standing in.
Denyro.
He came around the corner and stopped when he saw them, or rather, stopped when he saw his brother, his eyes moving to Elyndra briefly and then back to Zyran with an expression that gives off something she didn’t have the full name for.
”A word,” he said to Zyran.
She bowed her head slightly.
“I’ll leave you.”
She walked back toward the residence without looking back, and she did not let herself think about what Denyro wanted or what they would say to each other in the corridor with the garden below them.
She had enough to think about already.
—
Her courtyard was dim when she returned, the evening have arrived quietly while she was in the hall.
She pushed open the door to her chamber and stepped inside.
She pulled the door shut behind her, quickly, quietly and stood with her back against it for a moment.
Senna was sitting on the edge of the chair near the window.
She looked pale still, and thinner than she remembered, but her eyes were clear and she was sitting upright.
Azrael was on the other side of the room.
He was looking at something on the side table.
The embroidery frame.
He held it carefully.
He had recognised it.
The pale ivory thread.
The five petals, still incomplete, still unfinished.
He didn’t say anything for a moment.
Neither did she.
She crossed to Senna first, sat beside her and looked at her properly.
”You came back,” Elyndra said.
”I told him I wanted to,” Senna said simply.
Elyndra looked at her for a moment.
They talked in low voices, close together.
Elyndra asked, and Senna answered, and there was a particular relief in it.
Behind them, Azrael moved around the room in his unhurried way.
Then she stood and crossed to Azrael.
He was still holding the embroidery.
He turned it slightly in his hands, the small wooden frame worn from being handled.
”Moon-petal,” he said.
It wasn’t a question.
”Yes,” she said.
He was quiet for a moment.
He set the frame back on the side table carefully, exactly where it had been.
”She used to say they were the most honest flowers in any garden,” she said.
“Because they didn’t pretend to bloom when they weren’t ready.”
She looked at the frame.
”I know,” he said.
They stood there for a moment, the two of them, in the candlelit chamber, with the half-finished flower between them and everything it meant sitting in the air without needing to be named.
”You should finish it,” he said.
They talked for a while after, carefully, in low voices, the two of them in the small circle of candlelight.
Azrael gave her what he had, updates from Veythorn, small things she needed to know, the name of someone in the palace she hadn’t been watching closely enough.
She listened and noted and asked what she needed to ask.
”You need to go.” She said.
He looked at her.
”The Crown Prince, he comes unannounced,” she said.
“Mostly evenings now. If he finds you here…”
”I know,” Azrael said.
He moved toward the window.
He paused there, one hand on the window frame, and looked back at her.
”Kyren asks that you take care of yourself, and that he has been reading the letters you left him.” A pause.
“And that his calligraphy is improving.”
Something happened in her face.
Something small and warm that she didn’t bother to manage.
”Tell him,” she started.
Then stopped.
Azrael waited.
”Tell him I’ll,” she said.
Something that was almost a smile crossed his face.
It was the same almost-smile she had seen since they were young, the one that arrived and then thought better of itself, as though smiling was something he permitted himself only occasionally and only in certain company.
He went through the window.
She stood at the window for a long time after, watching the dark where he had disappeared, the garden below quiet and cool.
Then nothing.
She turned back to Senna, she looked at her for a moment.
”You should rest,” she said.
“You can stay here tonight. I’ll have a place made up.”
Senna opened her mouth.
”Don’t argue,” Elyndra said.
Senna closed her mouth.
Elyndra moved to the side table where the embroidery frame was with its five ivory petals, still unfinished, still waiting.
She looked at it for a long moment.
Then she picked up the needle.