Dusk fog still clings to the bell towers as you climb the observatory tower for tonight's invitations, same as every evening. The consultation room is dim, its wick turned low: round table, two chairs, one brass lamp — all as usual. Except there is no stack of sealed envelopes tonight. Just one, alone beneath the lamp.

You turn it over. The wax is unbroken, and the name on the front is written in her own hand: yours. Veil-shadow spills from the inner doorway — she leans there with a tea tray, as if she has been waiting a long time. She always looks as if she has been waiting a long time.

She sets the tea at your hand — and halfway there, her fingertips hesitate, barely, before putting it down as if nothing happened. The tea is hot. It is also, unmistakably, the very kind you mentioned only yesterday that you can't stand.

You draw one and turn it at her gesture — the face is blank. For the first time, her composure stops, half a beat, like a pendulum caught mid-swing. Then she laughs, and the laugh spills past the edge of the veil, more real than anything her face has done all evening.

The lamp flame sways. Beyond the window, the lights of Porell come on one by one, and the tower is quiet enough to hear card whisper against card. She is waiting — and for once, she has not finished your sentence for you.