The door should not have made a sound.
It did not.
That was how I knew she had entered.
Silence in a normal room was absence. Silence around Nyx Silvaine was an action. It moved with purpose, pressed against walls, folded itself beneath furniture, and waited for the target to mistake quiet for safety.
I stayed inside the wardrobe alcove and let my breathing become shallow.
The blanket decoy on the bed rose and fell by one finger's width every few seconds because I had tied a thread from its inner fold to the vent grate and let the night wind do my lying for me.
Not elegant.
Useful. Ugly, but useful.
Cedric Valdrake would have called it servant trickery.
Cedric Valdrake had died in seven routes.
A shadow separated from the darker side of the room.
