Agnes Viremont looked around the study with new eyes.
The eyes of a woman who had been trained by the best intelligence operative on the continent, who had memorized the layout of Darkhowler's castle in under a week, who had mapped guard rotations from a guest bedroom while pretending to read poetry, and who was now sitting in the workspace of the man who had taught her all of it.
He had left her in his study. In a room that contained his desk. His drawers. His bookshelves. His letter opener, his ink pots, his seal stamps, his quills, and, if his habits hadn't changed since she was sixteen, a decorative display of antique pins on the shelf behind his desk that he kept because Reginald Viremont collected small, sharp objects the way other men collected art.
This was the most productive punishment she had ever received.
"You absolute idiot," she muttered.
