“Acid-wash,” Fione blinks, gratefully gulping the bowl of tea I pour her. “To remove the lacquer decomp on the book’s untreated pages. We couldn’t see the letters through the stains.” She looks at Lucien. “The phrases you gave me on the ship helped immensely, by the way. Thank you.”

“Anytime.” The prince tries a smile. “Zera’s right, though. You look exhausted.”

“Almost done,” she insists with as few words as possible and shoves the bowl back at me before walking to the table and sitting down again. She looks over at Yorl. “The four-point remedy?”

“Close,” he says back, voice even rougher than usual. “Need a second adjudicator on the sentence structure.” I pour another bowl of tea and offer it over his shoulder, but he waves it off. “No. Can’t risk the papers getting wet.”

“Oh, c’mon. One little drop won’t hurt ’em,” I insist. “But one drop could do wonders for you, Sir Large Brain.”

He glares up at me with emerald slits, then down at my boots. Those are Muro’s eyes, through and through. No wonder everyone can tell he’s Farspear-Ashwalker by just looking at him.

“Move. You’re standing on Willem dal-Braal’s verb-transfer theorem.”

“Well, Willem dal-Braal will have to wait for a bit, then, won’t he?” I shove the tea bowl under his broad nose. “Go on. The price for me moving is three sips.”

Yorl’s glower is far worse than any valkerax’s. His ears lay flat as he snatches the bowl with his claws and barely puts his muzzle to it.

“Big sips, mind you,” I singsong.

He makes a snarl and chugs, shoving the empty bowl back at me. “Begone, you irritating mother hen.”

“He’s proud of you, you know.”

His eyes snap up to mine, confusion there for just a moment before he realizes who I must mean. His grandfather. Message sent, Muro.

I smile cheerily and hop off the parchment. Yorl unfreezes and shakes his head, deciding I’m talking nonsense again. He leans over in his seat to scoop the paper up, comparing it to the book page under his paw and muttering quietly to himself. I shoot an exasperated eye roll at Lucien, and he smiles with the bare corner of his lips back at me.

“So what’s our time estimate for some answers? Because I’m pretty done with this place.” Malachite sits at the only other open chair at the study table, managing to prop his boots on the paper-strewn surface for just a half second before Fione instantly raps her cane against his shoes and he lowers his feet back down.