Day Ten of Tutoring.
The West Wing had undergone a startling transformation.
Gone were the shadows, the butter-slicked floors, and the sense of impending doom. The curtains were thrown open, letting the sunlight stream onto the velvet rugs. The torn books had been replaced.
And in the corner, where Lady Ellia used to plot the demise of her tutors, a desk had been set up for Grand Duke Bastion.
He was sitting there now, reviewing military logistics reports while occasionally glancing up to check on his daughter. He looked tired—rebuilding a relationship with an eight-year-old is exhausting work—but the dull, haunted look in his eyes was gone.
Ellia was sitting at the main table, chewing on the end of a quill.
"This is stupid," she announced, glaring at a sheet of paper. "Why does 'X' always want to be found? Why can't 'X' just stay lost?"
"Because 'X' is the variable, little Lion," I said, pouring tea. "And in life, we must solve for the unknown."
