"Room eight. Been here almost a week," Royce said.

"A week? Why so early?" Hadrian asked.

"If you were living in a monastery for ten months a year, wouldn't you show up early for Wintertide?"

Hadrian grabbed his swords and the two moved down the hall. Royce picked the lock of a weathered door and slid it open. On the far side of the room, two candles burned on a small table set with plates, glasses, and a bottle of wine. A man, dressed in velvet and silk, stood before a wall mirror, checking the tie that held back his blond hair and adjusting the high collar of his coat.

"Looks like he was expecting us," Hadrian said.

"Looks like he was expecting someone," Royce clarified.

"What the-" Startled, Albert Winslow spun around. "Would it hurt to knock?"

"What can I say?" Royce flopped on the bed. "We're scoundrels and thieves."

"Scoundrels certainly," Albert said, "but thieves? When was the last time you two stole anything?"

"Do I detect dissatisfaction?"

"I'm a viscount. I have a reputation to uphold, which takes a certain amount of income-money that I don't receive when you two are idle."

Hadrian took a seat at the table. "He's not dissatisfied. He's outright scolding us."

"Is that why you're here so early?" Royce asked. "Scouting for work?"

"Partially. I also needed to get away from the Winds Abbey. I'm becoming a laughing stock. When I contacted Lord Daref, he couldn't lay off the Viscount Monk jokes. On the other hand, Lady Mae does find my pious reclusion appealing."

"And is she the one who…" Hadrian swirled a finger at the neatly arranged table.

"Yes. I was about to fetch her. I'm going to have to cancel, aren't I?" He looked from one to the other and sighed.