“To . . . Pritkin’s?” I asked, getting a bad feeling about this.
Rian nodded distractedly, wrestling with the air conditioner currents for her lord and master. “I was asked to pass it along.”
“Thanks,” I said, my mouth dry. And watched her leave.
The package was expensively wrapped, of course, in gold and white stripes. There was also a card. No salutation, just a single line in a beautiful, flowing script.
Perhaps the lady would like to reconsider?
I looked at it for a long moment. And then tore the paper off all at once. Like a Band-Aid, I thought grimly, wondering why Mircea had sent me a book.
Until I saw the title. I stood there in Dante’s hallway, holding a beautifully illustrated copy of Le Morte d’Arthur. The most famous book ever written about King Arthur . . . and his court.
Mircea, I thought furiously, looking back at Pritkin’s room and crumpling the note in my hand.
And then I shifted.