Chapter 6: Rules of the East Wing

The cook left Silvan's breakfast tray at the end of the hall at eight, and Linnet picked it up before anyone else could.

She carried it through the black door with the photograph tucked under the plate.

Silvan was in the library behind his bedroom, standing on one leg beside a wall of books.

He had a book in one hand and the cane in the other.

"You're up," he said.

"You're standing," Linnet said. "The doctor says ten minutes an hour."

"I'm on minute eleven. I'm rebelling."

She set the tray down on the reading table and slid the photograph across to him.

"Philippa gave me this last night," she said. "Outside the club, in the cold, away from the room. She made me promise to keep it private."

Silvan looked at the picture for a long time.

He did not touch it.

"That's my coat," he said. "That's my shoulder."

"Five-forty in the morning."

"I left when your breathing was even and the sun was coming up. I didn't see anyone in the corridor."

"Someone saw you."

He set the book down and lowered himself into the chair across from her.

"Whoever sent this wants you to ask who I am," he said. "Or wants someone else to."

"Philippa."

"Maybe. Or the person standing behind her."

Linnet pulled the plate toward her, took a piece of toast, and put half of it on his side of the table.

He looked at it for a second before he took it.

"What are you doing?" he said.

"Eating breakfast with my husband. The terms say nothing against it."

"The terms say four things."

"I read them. Eating is not one of the four."

He picked up the toast and took a bite, and his mouth twitched.

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