his own belly and suspiciously peered around. “It’s so dark in here, a man can hardly see!”
Wilford chortled, then broke off in a wheezing gasp, nearly falling on the ground until the footman rushed to steady him.
“Perhaps…” Myth furrowed her forehead in falsified concern. “But their presence is necessary to confirm we receive everything His Royal Highness has requested. I have a list, but I—”
“Yes, I recall that you are a mere apprentice and cannot write or read in Calnoric,” Lord Julyan said in a tone so smothering and smug, Myth wondered how he didn’t choke himself. “Fear not, I can confirm for you myself.”
“Very well then.” Myth slowly turned around to Wilford, Thad, and Grygg, trying to convey reluctance. “I’ll be right back with the records.”
Thad swung his leather satchel a bit. “What?”
“She’ll be right back!” Wilford shouted.
“Of course she’ll be right back,” Thad said. “We’ll soon be late—they’re expecting us at the Fulton town house to pick up those documents!”
Lord Julyan shut the door, muffling the trio’s shouted conversation. “Here, Translator Mythlan. Have a seat.” He motioned to the two empty chairs placed in front of his desk.
Like Arvel’s office, Lord Julyan’s bookshelves were deplorably bare of actual books, but that was where the resemblance ended, for although Arvel’s shelves were bare, Lord Julyan’s were stuffed with things—small sculptures carved from shiny stone, an elven-made vase barren of flowers, an egg-sized jewel, and—perhaps most surprising—a High Elf sword was displayed above the fireplace.
Despite herself, Myth’s gaze lingered on the sword. Wing-like adornments ornamented the hilt, and Elvish script and High Elf runes decorated the blade.
Myth recognized the runes as High Elf magic, and clenched her jaw.
Lesser Elves did not easily part with High Elf weapons, particularly any that were enchanted. They’d been given to a select few who would recognize the worth of the weapons and never part with them, and Myth was almost certain that Lord Julyan was not included among that elite group.
Aware that Lord Julyan was watching her, Myth forcibly turned away from the weapon and cast an “admiring eye” around the study.
While Arvel’s office was bright in sunlight and color due to its garden view, Lord Julyan’s was dark in all of its luxuriousness, with the elven silk draperies blocking a great deal of the light, and a paint screen covering the fireplace.
Things covered every surface—even elven rugs were spread over the floor—almost suffocating Myth in the choking display of luxuries.
It seems to me a good amount of the Fultons’ “misplaced goods” end up as decorations for their own house. And that doesn’t even address the matter of that sword…
Lord Julyan sat behind his desk—the only unembellished thing in the room, except for the small stack of logbooks piled on it. “I have them stacked up here, but—since you are concerned—I can read off what they are for you.”
“I have a list.” Myth glanced at the stack as she passed the paper over—the same one Thad had been going over in the carriage. “And it seems like some are missing, for His Highness wishes for twenty different logs, and you only have fifteen here.”
“Is that so? My nephew must have added some in from the initial list he sent me—considering how detail orientated he is, he is frightfully bad at remembering to inform a body when he needs something.” Lord Julyan laughed.
“It was rather last minute in this case,” Myth agreed.
Arvel had purposely increased the number of records he needed, hoping to lure Lord Julyan into flaunting his superiority in “outwitting” him, and hopefully drawing him to reveal the real logbooks.
As Lord Julyan unlocked a drawer in his desk, Myth made it a point to let her gaze slide uncomprehendingly across the prepared logs, and instead studied the room’s decorations.
“You have a great many beautiful things,” she said.
Lord Julyan removed a stack of leather-bound logs and records from the drawer and put them on his desk, his smile crumpling into an ugly smirk. “Thank you.” He started sifting through the logs, making a show of checking the engraved titles.
Myth sat straight in her chair, her hands folded as she adopted the quiet mannerisms she used when listening to lectures at the Translators’ Circle, hopefully appearing attentive but not particularly focused on a specific thing as she cast her gaze around the office again.
Faintly, she heard Thad’s, Wilford’s, and Grygg’s muffled voices grow louder—though not at all clearer.
There was a metallic clang, followed by the shatter of something that was likely expensive. Then the footman