“Excuse me,” you said, with sodden asperity. “Oh. Apologies,” said Palamedes Sextus. “Misread the moment. Let’s call it cabin fever. Nonagesimus, is Camilla—” “She sent me,” you said, wringing out your wet hem. “She is alive and well and living.” He whistled a sigh. “Oh, thank God,” he said a little unsteadily. “Thank God for that mad, stubborn, lovely girl. Speaking of. Harrowhark, you are a sight for sore eyes.”
