“An unexpected pleasure doing business with you, Your Grace,” the Knave says, the sound of their voice managing to carry across the distance like smoke. The eyes of the children huddled in their shadows sparkle and shine even more, curious about what business their Father could have with the Duke of Meropide. Outside of the regular back and forth sending and returning of spies, of course. “Should you ever feel like enjoying more of my house’s hospitality, the door is open for you. You are welcome at our table. I am sure that eventually we will offer something that suits your tastes.”

Wriothesley adjusts the collar of his own coat, feeling like he’s aged about ten years, the night air nipping at the back of his neck as he turns to join his own guardsmen. He nods in the Knave’s direction, hoping his expression comes off as it usually does when he’s on the surface world and doesn’t show all of the things that belong in the frigid dark.

“May we have no further occasion for such pleasures, your lordship. You can keep your hospitality for someone else.”