Milan closed his eyes. The look on his face was the one he reserved for moments when his best friend — the only other person in this world who remembered a previous world — said something so perfectly, catastrophically inappropriate that no response in any language, living or dead, was adequate.
"Jolthar," Milan said, giving him the stare.
"Milan," Jolthar replied nonchalantly.
"We are at the Emperor's marriage feast."
"I noticed the orchids."
Sarojina turned from her conversation and regarded Jolthar with the measured appraisal of a woman who had raised two sons and was therefore immune to all known forms of masculine nonsense.
"Count Kaezhlar," she said. Her tone was warm — genuinely warm — but carried the architectural precision of someone who had navigated imperial society for thirty years.
"You look well, and I appreciate you for bringing my sons."
"My lady." Jolthar inclined his head.
"Thank you for your help."
