He was awake before five.
Not anxious. Just awake — the specific wakefulness of someone whose internal calendar had noted something significant and had decided not to wait for the alarm.
Eli was asleep.
Cara was asleep.
The penthouse was the specific quiet of early April, the city outside still in its pre-dawn version.
He got up.
Made tea.
Stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Caelan appeared at five-forty.
He didn't say anything.
He went to the coffee machine.
Made coffee.
Came to stand beside Seren at the window.
They stood there.
The city below was starting to decide what kind of day it was going to be. The light coming in from the east, thin and specific, the particular quality of early April in London when the year had finally committed to something.
"It's going to be clear," Caelan said.
"Yes."
"The garden will have light by ten."
"Yes."
Seren drank his tea.
Caelan drank his coffee.
Neither of them said anything else for a while.
