The lesser audience hall is a cage of cedar and shadow. Tasenia stands perfectly still behind the screen, the gold pomegranate cup a heavy weight in her right hand. Through the geometric piercings of the wood, she watches the Empress. Theodora does not look like a woman arranging her own end; she looks like a woman ordering fresh linens for the guest wing. Her voice is a low, terrifyingly calm rasp that carries through the ivory-inlaid lattice.
'The poison must be in the second pouring,' the Empress says to the shadow of the Logothete’s messenger. 'It must be swift enough to end the feast, but slow enough for the court to witness the price of my silence.' Tasenia’s thumb brushes the ink-smudge on her hand, a small, dark stain against the ivory silk of her tunic. Her heart hammers against her ribs, a wild bird trapped in the hollow of her chest. To know this is to be already dead.
She shifts her weight to retreat, her leather slippers silent on the silver-and-mosaic floor. But the air in the corridor suddenly thickens with a new presence. A heavy shadow falls across the carved wooden screen, and the brass latch begins to slowly lift.
