I did not argue.
The garden was bathed in soft sunlight, dew still clinging to leaves and petals. Birds chirped overhead, blissfully unaware of conspiracies, explosions, and dead nobles.
We settled at a small table beneath the arbor. Tea was poured. Steam curled upward.
I stared into my cup.
"Are you still thinking about it?" Maribel asked gently.
"Yes."
She sighed. "I thought so."
I finally looked up. "Why would he kill himself?"
Maribel blinked. "Straight to the point."
"It makes no sense," I continued, words tumbling out now that they had started. "His business was seized, yes, but nobles lose businesses all the time. They do not explode themselves for it."
"True," she admitted.
"And Lucien," I said quietly. "Who was he calling? Mabel. He sounded desperate."
Maribel frowned. "I noticed that."
"And the cloaked figure," I went on, gripping my cup. "They were unharmed. They escaped too easily. And I have seen someone like that before."
