Mrs. Erickson was a constant—almost daily—presence. A silver-haired older woman with slightly bent shoulders and eyes that were clear as day in a wrinkled network of a face, she never came by empty-handed. If there was an actual Mr. Erickson, none of the officers in the Halls of Law had ever met him. Some were certain he didn’t, or had never, existed.

Kaylin hadn’t quite managed to work her way up to that kind of deep cynicism yet, although older Hawks told her it was only a matter of time. And while Mrs. Erickson could be difficult to deal with, it was mostly a patience deficit on the part of the Hawks. Mrs. Erickson had never approached the front desk brandishing a knife, a club, a fire iron, or, in one instance, a highly illegal magical device.

Nor had she approached the front desk demanding to see someone in charge while looking down her nose at the person who was manning the desk. She didn’t consider the Halls of Law to be an extension of her personal fiefdom, and officers therefore her servants. As far as Kaylin could tell, the old lady truly valued the Halls of Law and the services it attempted to provide the citizens of Elantra.

Kaylin had grown up in the fiefs. Old ladies in the fiefs had a kind of grit, a kind of steel to the spine—they’d have to, to have survived for as long as they had, even the ones who appeared sweet in a place where sweetness was the exception, not the rule. It took strength to be sweet—it meant you didn’t care if people thought you were a mark. Or a victim.

Kaylin had never been particularly sweet.

But she’d trusted it when she encountered it, or trusted it enough that she didn’t immediately pull daggers and back off. Pulling daggers here, at the front desk, would be severely career limiting in any case, unless the visitor had run in heavily armed and obviously intent on causing damage. Even then, it wasn’t daggers officers were meant to employ, but the sticks and batons that were part of their beat uniform.

Neither of which would be necessary with Mrs. Erickson. She came armed with a basket, from which the scent of baking emanated. She never came empty-handed, and no one was fool enough to imply that the baking she brought was somehow poisoned.

Also: Kaylin’s stomach spoke before she could.

Mrs. Erickson stopped two yards from the desk, her eyes widening at Kaylin. Or, more accurately, at the shoulder ornament. While the rest of the Hawks—and most Swords—had proven that familiarity breeds, if not contempt, then comfort, Mrs. Erickson was not a person Kaylin saw every day. She expected Mrs. Erickson to have words or questions, and was slightly surprised to hear what they were.