Fen.
I balanced the tray on one hand and tucked the wolf chess board under my arm as I stepped into the old wing.
The fire was already going. I'd told the guards to light it early—Rowan always watched the flames like they were speaking to him in a language only he remembered and I wondered if that was part of the gift of the firefox. He sat on the edge of the narrow bed, arms folded, face half-shadowed in the flickering light. He looked like something carved from volcanic rock—too still, too sharp to be comfortable.
"You brought something that doesn't smell like stew," he said without looking up.
"Don't get used to it," I replied, setting the tray down on the small table by the fire. "Roasted root vegetables. Smoked hare. Apple tart if you behave."
He gave a low, amused huff. "That's a lot of trust."
I dropped the chess board on the table with a soft thud. "I'm making poor decisions tonight."
