In recent centuries, Fayura had been forced to become a creature of habit. When she'd been younger, she had moved about constantly first with her mother and then by herself, and unpredictable movement kept her alive. Only after acquiring Craft teachers had she started following a schedule, but even that had been haphazard and driven by their strange circadian rhythms. Now, she kept the schedule Loren gave her, and he'd pointed out the necessity of making herself available to the Strangers as well.

After dinner, she retired to one of the parlors on the first floor of the residence, usually in a comfortable sweater and loose trousers, her hair pinned to her head with Craft and a book in hand. Her First Circle often joined her, drifting in to read with her or play cards together and then drifting out to find their families and retire for the night.

Jon found her in a rare moment of solitude. Lord Durnem had just left, and Prince Zaym had yet to arrive, leaving Fay curled alone on one of end of a deep, plush couch. She looked up at his approach, sensing the hungry energy at the depth of the Red.

As he entered, she vanished her book. He looked terrible; skin waxy and pale, so thin the veins showed through. Hunger made his eyes glassy and wild, but the look didn't frighten her. She'd seen it on too many faces in her childhood to be frightened of it as an adult.

"I made you an offer once," she said. "Have you come to accept it?"