handled the whole mess fairly well.
The east windows framed a sky that was indigo blue, spangled with tiny crystal star-beads. The west held the sun dying a bloody death. Petro was a dark silhouette against the red.
Marco cleared his throat. “You sent for me, Milord Dorma?”
Petro did not turn around. “It seems,” he said dryly, “that you have fallen into the muck-pit of Dorma secrets. Doctor Rigannio told me a bit—’Gelina told me more.” He sighed. “It seems to me the older and more honorable the House, the deeper and