"To send" she queried as if the idea were somehow unfamiliar to her, "No, dear brother, merely a letter to deliver." She offered to him gingerly, stepping away from the door and more into the realm of birds. She heard the quiet ruffling of their feathers in the distance and an occasional chortle or, perhaps, a muffled squawk. Pyrra adjusted her stance and slid around her brother, casting eyes about the room with an intense curiosity. It seemed that things within the Aviary switched their positions frequently, making it something of a game to her to attempt to imagine the scene as she had last seen it.

 "To you, particularly," she said over her shoulder, casting pale eyes at her brother for a moment before going back to making notes, "from Father. He sends his regards, as well as this letter. Beyond that," Pyrra offered with a muted chortle of her own, "I suppose it's between the two of you." Her hands slid onto her hips as she made quiet notice of a loose stone on the floor, at the foot of the wall, and a clean square on the dusty table where a stack of papers had been on her last visit.

 "I bore the letter for love of you and lack of want for the night's feast. Seems most things have become bitter, in recent days."

 She was loathe to speak to her brother of the troubles of the kingdom, but there were few ears she could trust; and much to be said on the subject.

- - - - - -- 
 "Yes, that was during my first year in the capitol. The wine was exquisite, but the times were hard..."

 Forthel Quinn narrowed his eyes, seemingly seeking a distant memory. To those who would watch, he seemed to be the victim of a drunken reverie; to hear his mouth tell the tale. In truth, he was searching the crowd for a familiar face. Those who served the Quinn family from the shadows were many, their faces unknown to those of the court; but there was one who was sure to be noticed. That was, if he had dared to show his true face. Forthel knew that Friar Cayn was a man of subtlety and obfuscation and would rarely dare to show his face at a royal event; at least not his true face.

 That was what occupied Forthel Quinn, searching for the unfamiliar in a room all too knowable. The others around him had turned away, believing his story to be finished as he stared, mouth slightly agape, into the distance. He watched the feast, the nobles, the king, the princess, the northern princes, their guards. All was in place at the high table. Yet they did not concern him, not yet. The room was tumultuous, plates and cups and people shifting and changing places like entropic clockwork. He watched them move, some gears and some pins, searching for the rat in the machine.

 Finally, he spied the disguised assassin. Cayn sat with his arms crossed, a bemused smile spread across his false face. He sat and broke bread and ate his fill. Forthel Quinn watched him for a long while, until the man turned toward him. Slowly, the assassin stood and said farewell to those at his table. For a time, he waited, before bidding farewell to the table, begging pardon and slipping out of the door.

 "Where's my money," came the whisper from the shadows, as he passed by the first arched hallway.

 "You'll get your money when I have proof of your success."

 The assassin grunted and pulled a roll of papers from his clothing, offering it forward with a stabbing motion.