“Who the fuck is it?” Draven bellowed. His face was dark with frustration. Unable to act, unable to help. “Now isn’t the best time,” I called, trying to temper his words and guessing it was probably some poor servant with a breakfast tray. Though it was far too early for breakfast.
Okay, so… you wake up to a man that has had his throat shot apart inside your bedroom who happens to be a stitcher… which means he likely stitched from wherever he was shot to there, and then someone knocks on your door at this ungodly hour immediately after this man falls dead and you tell them to go away? Not thinking the two things may be related and that there’s danger? Was the author’s mind present when this book was written?
