Constance had returned seeming... [i]better[/i] for lack of a better word, which told Tristan his watch that night would be unneeded, unwanted. He'd taken that as a reason to retire early. 

The day is dark, and gray, but it is a day, and Tristan is alive to meet it. There is good food in the kitchen for breakfast, warm fireplaces and libraries. Tristan is too anxious to read by half, but he's got a lot of thoughts and he's out of practice with his poetic forms. He could talk to Liana about polishing them if he were to give them an audience, but for now it's just to get his thoughts on the page.

For an hour he sits and stares at a blank page, composing and recomposing in his head. It saves crossing out the endless mistakes, heaps of crumpled balls thrown in the fireplace. It would be a crime to waste the paper. The quill does not dip in ink until, finally, he gets it. 

[i]Here at winter's end
The future lies in ambush
I rise to meet it.[/i]

There's no sense in scolding himself that it should not have taken that long. Such things take as long as they take. What is important is that he is content with it - feels grateful to have finished it just before he is summoned. 

[quote]"What...do you think of the knights I have gathered here?"[/quote]

The Lady's question takes Tristan by surprise, and he bows in deference, using the long moment to collect his thoughts. Again he's flipping a mindset on a dime - he's still felt like he has so much to learn about them that he's not made any conclusions. 

"I like them," Tristan offers, lamely. "They're kind. I must admit, I wish I understood them better. Mostly I wonder... Where will they go, after this? Do you know?" He worries for Harold. He is intrigued by Hector. And he is curious, to say the least, for the still mysterious Liliana. 

He glances to Constance, whose thoughts are just as mysterious to him, but takes solace in her countenance - far better than the one she bore here, not long ago.