Dark-brown hair—no gray—few wrinkles, a high forehead that might have been a receding hairline, but just as likely could be a family trait; she estimated his age at early third decade. No facial hair. Farilane had done a study and discovered that beards and mustaches became increasingly prevalent the more distant one went from the capital. Even on the outskirts of Percepliquis you’d find finely trimmed mustaches and longer sideburns. Provincials sported goatees and manicured chin straps. A full-on beard, like that which Gibson the Bear-Man sported, was the norm for the world beyond civilization. The lack of any facial hair indicated that this man was educated and urban, calling the central city his home. A pale complexion supported this theory and eliminated all chance that he was a warrior, laborer, or courier. He had clear and attentive eyes, further suggesting an education above normal. Those eyes were focused on hers, demonstrating an impressive degree of self-confidence. Upon meeting the princess, most people didn’t dare match her glare. This impudent fellow brazenly stared right back. He was human, which ruled out a member of the elven Instarya tribe.

Leaving what? A scion of one of the powerful merchant houses? Nephew of a governor?

“This is a friend of mine, a scrivener,” Virgil said in introduction.

Farilane’s eyes widened. Scrivener? He might as well have introduced the fellow as a thief. “Scribing is illegal.”

Virgil frowned and sighed.

“Sorry,” she said. She forced a smile at the new guy. “Good morning! So nice to meet you! How’s the family? Have a nice trip in?” She put gusto into her words to blanket the insincerity.

“Oh, for all the gods’ sakes.” Virgil shook his head. “Just stop now, please. I beg you.”

“I tried,” she said and retreated back into her lair. Glancing over her shoulder—He’s still looking at me.

“With such effort”—Virgil followed her in—“you might make a success of such complex endeavors as falling asleep.”

“You’d think that, wouldn’t you?” she said.

“Maybe you should. A good rest might improve your manners.” Virgil followed her as she wove between the stacks of parchment leaves, bound books, and pyramids of scrolls that formed literary stalagmites rising up from the priceless Calynian rug.

“What’s with him?” she asked, pointing at the new arrival who remained at the door. He looked wide-eyed around the room. “Do you need to slap your leg, whistle, and offer a treat or something?”

“Oh! Sorry,” the scribe said, and just before entering bit his lower lip and smiled at her in a seriously charming manner.

Despite her natural repulsion to strangers, Farilane enjoyed how the man had successfully, and subtly, continued her canine metaphor by demonstrating the human equivalent of raising his ears and tilting his head. He’s cute, at least.