"Did he sign it?"
"Yes, Your Excellency."
"What did he write?"
Bernard glanced at the final line. "C."
"How informal."
Abi leaned toward me. "He's becoming bold."
"He's becoming useful."
"Same thing?"
"In his case, perhaps."
I handed the document back. "Keep it. If Marcellus asks to see it, show him the seal, but don't hand it over."
"Yes, Your Excellency."
We entered the record hall, and the smell hit first, dust and wax and old leather, the strained patience of clerks who'd stopped expecting anything interesting from their work. Shelves rose all the way toward the high ceiling, ladders sliding along brass rails, rows of desks filling the central chamber, each one occupied by scribes bent over their ledgers with the defeated posture of people copying names they'd never bother to remember.
