"Cerys?" he began, voice low so it wouldn't bounce off the copper pipes.
She lifted a hand—just two fingers raised—and shook her head once. No words. Not now. The gesture was curt but not hostile, like a wolf warning a companion to tread carefully over thin ice.
He respected the signal, pressing his lips together. She needs space, he thought, watching her boots turn toward the spiral stair. The fine dust of pastry sugar still clung to the leather where Serelith had tried to "accidentally" flick a crumb earlier. He considered brushing it off for her, decided against it. The red-haired knight hated fuss.
