I've been here for two hours now, ever since Pansy's owl arrived at my townhouse with a single, scented line of parchment. Come. I need you.

And like always, I came.

The room smells of her—jasmine, expensive perfume, and the faintest hint of something sharper underneath. Rosewood and old money.

She hasn't spoken since she let me in. Just sat me down in the armchair across from the settee where she's draped herself like a cat waiting to pounce.

Her dark bob is perfect. Her robes are silk, deep emerald, pooling around her thighs as she crosses and uncrosses her legs. She taps a manicured nail against her wine glass, watching me.