It was raining outside, a cold and heavy rain marching in offbeat steps. Lura rubbed at her wrinkles in the mirror, making sure they were all deep and prominent. Lines like mazes, winding, proud…

Sandren’s voice pulled her out of her rapture. “A treatise just arrived from the Matriarch. Falai says she wants you to edit and send back for publishing.”

“Thank you, dear,” Lura murmured, breaking away from the mirror and joining her husband in the parlor. He glanced up at her from behind his cocoa as she sank into an armchair.

“What’s wrong?” Sandren asked.

She stared at the wallpaper. Sighed. “We had to evict another serf today. She begged.”

“And you were sympathetic?”

“I don’t think it’s entirely their fault. There’s something in the weather, maybe. The production’s been dropping tenfold.”

“A serf is a serf,” Sandren sighed.

“A girl is a girl.”

“And a worker who doesn’t do his share is—”

“I understand. Let’s stop arguing, there’s not point in it anyhow. Is Camille in bed?”

“Dead tired.”