The dining hall had been reconfigured. It wasn't the furniture, but the atmosphere had changed. The air felt like the moment right before a lightning strike, where the hair on your arms stands up and you can taste the ozone on the back of your tongue. Verona felt it acutely. She stood by her chair, her fingers tracing the fine, slightly irregular weave of the linen tablecloth, her mind a frantic tally of every detail she'd agonized over since Isella's whirlwind arrival.
The scent of rosemary-crusted lamb, slow-roasted to a succulent pink, wafted from the silver platters. Beside it sat the honeyed root vegetables, glazed until they shone like amber, Isella's favorite, according to the frantic kitchen staff who had been threatened with various Northern "disciplines" if the seasoning wasn't surgical. It was a diplomatic peace offering, a culinary white flag.
