Grey left his mother's room again, empty plates and cups stacked in one hand. She had eaten quickly. He wondered with a certain bitterness if the servants which cared for Boralle had been feeding her well enough. It took a great amount of patience to adequately care for someone bedridden. The Stolen made a mental note personally oversee his mother's mealtimes. He simply could not risk anything happening to her; she was too important--too integral--in the upcoming events to let her fall ill, or worse.

He opened the door and immediately ran into his cousin, Ruarc, who had been lingering outside the door to Boralle's chambers. Silverware and empty goblets hit the ground in a loud metallic clatter, and one of the plates shattered as it hit the floor's masonry. Grey the Stolen, who was a small and mousy man, fell back squarely on his buttocks.

Grey scrambled to pick up the broken shards of porcelain and other dishes. “Oh, Ruarc, I am so sorry. I didn’t see you there…” The Stolen swayed to his feet. [i]How much of that did he hear? Surely nothing, surely nothing of her true condition… Surely nothing her true intentions…[/i] He felt his hands tighten on the shattered dinnerware enough to turn his knuckles white and to draw blood. 

“H-how long have you been waiting on me?”