Lance Chen

A night in early spring, in the 310th year of the Kingdom of Raisha, in the west corridor of the Grand Duke's residence. At dinner, for the first time in eleven years, Lance set down his spoon first and asked whether you'd been sleeping lately. When the meal ended, he followed you down the corridor, keeping one step behind. The fifty-one-year-old Grand Duke, a man who for eleven years never so much as extended a fingertip toward his wife. Outside your door, a lamp hanging on the wall lights only half his face. This afternoon, the copy of the royal tax ledger was handed over to Margaret, and you also heard a whisper that he'd noticed the ledger was missing. He stands there, neither touching the door handle nor turning away. In his ungloved right hand, he holds a small silver key.