A witness was a dangerous thing. One person could be silenced; a room that had learned to remember was harder.
By breakfast, the academy had invented three reasons why Nyx Silvaine had not killed me.
One said I had bribed her.
One said House Silvaine had reconsidered the value of Valdrake blood.
One said the assassin had entered my room by mistake and left after realizing even death did not enjoy Cedric Valdrake's company.
The third theory had taste.
Unfortunately, it was also the least dangerous.
Rumors were simple things. Feed them a name, a wound, a broken cup, and they ran through halls faster than servants with messages. House Silvaine was not simple. Assassins did not send children into rooms for accidents, and they did not forgive failed blades because the target had interesting posture.
Ren placed my tea down with both hands.
Not because the cup was heavy.
Because his fingers were shaking.
"Wrong blend," I said.
Ren froze.
