The night was deep and still. A heavy silence had fallen over the Thompson estate. In his study, a vast, dark-wood-paneled room lit only by a single branch of candles and the glow of a dying fire, Derek sat behind his massive desk. He was not reading, nor was he drinking. He was staring at a map of the city, his mind miles away, his "skiver" persona laid aside like a coat.
A soft knock, barely a sound, broke the silence.
He leaned back, his eyes narrowing. It was far too late for a servant, and he was not expecting company. "Come in," he said, his voice flat.
The door opened, and Marissa walked in.
