Logbook

Cyrus watches the onslaught of Primrose's curiosity with a smile that he conceals behind a cup of tea. Her words are as precise as her aim is with the dagger, and more is said than uttered at the table by day's end. The sun has begun to set and dye the town in its warm hues when he sets the cup down on its plate; the innocuous clink of ceramic pierces the one-sided chatter, drawing eyes his way after they'd long forgotten his presence.

"It's gotten to be rather late," he says simply. "Thank you for your hospitality, Primrose."

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