He sat back in his chair.

Not the chair behind the desk — the large, high-backed one beside the window, the one that faced the eastern fields, where the morning light was now fully gold and warm across the stone floor. He sat with the ease of a man completely at home in his own authority, one arm resting on the armrest, and he looked at her — still kneeling, still wrecked, kajal halfway down her face — and he said simply: