“Close the door, and don’t move from that spot,” she ordered, as the scribe attempted to follow their path. He, too, was dressed in the old-fashioned pallium robes, although his were black, with a blue stole worn backward in the fashion of a scholar. The lavish robes were a hazard to her precise but fragile filing system, and she fought a cringe.

“Wouldn’t think of it,” he said, stopping between the five-hundred-year-old stool she was in the process of refinishing and a tower of scrolls stacked in chronological order. “This place is . . .”

She waited as the scribe continued to look about at the framed diagrams, maps, and seals hanging in close order on the walls.

“. . . wonderful,” he finally concluded.

“I’m so pleased you approve. Just remember—none of this exists. Repeat it to anyone, and I’ll have you torn apart by dogs.”

The scrivener blinked.

“You might want to go a little easier on him,” Virgil said.

“Why? Is he the son of a council member?”

“No, he’s replacing me.”

Farilane stared at the old man for a long moment, then shook her head. “That’s ridiculous. Why do you need replacing? What are you talking about?”

“When we were on that cliff, you made me see that . . . well, I’m too old for this anymore.”

“You’re quitting?”

“I prefer to say I’m retiring.”

“Quitting,” she insisted.

“You need someone younger, someone . . .”

“What? My own age?” She shook her head and laughed. She didn’t like the sound, too high, too cynical, too angry, too hurt.

“I’m sorry,” Virgil said. “I know this isn’t easy for you.”

Farilane folded her lips tight, breathed through her nose, and shook her head. “Why do you say that?”

The philosopher offered a sad frown in return.

“It’s just . . .” she started, then stopped because she thought her voice might crack if she didn’t. Swallowing, she began again. “We only just got to know each other. We just met, and now . . .”

“I’ve been with you for forty-seven years.”

“I know!” She wiped her eyes. “It’s like we were just starting to click. I was finally getting used to your habits: the way you like your tea with lemon and to be woken up just before dawn.”

“I hate waking up before dawn.”

“What? No, you like getting up early so you can see the sunrise during your morning runs.”

Virgil laughed. “I haven’t run in the morning for almost thirty years.”

“Really?”

He nodded. “And I can’t drink tea anymore. It keeps me awake, and I have a hard enough time sleeping.”

They just stared at each other for a long moment, as if playing a game. Who would blink first?

“Why are you really doing this?” she asked.

“I told you. I can’t keep up anymore, so I want—”

“How long?” Her voice lost all humor, all patience.