Jasmine Giacomo
Rhou slammed her newly-cleaned courier case on the marble table and stalked over to the cupboard, yanking it open. She lifted out a mug with a blue stone embedded in its handle, and poured it full of cold tea from the pot over the dead fire. She had a finger poised on the embedded stone when the ashes caught her eye. They’d been dead for over a day. She rolled her eyes and focused her anger into magic. Through the blue stone and into the mug it went, and the tea began steaming.
She sniffed it, satisfied. Old hot tea was infinitely better than old cold tea. Now, if only someone had been here to welcome her.
But no. She was always out of everyone else’s loop.
Sitting in a chair, she leaned back and rested her heels on the table. The adobe arch that framed the open window let in a warm spring breeze, and Rhou enjoyed its coolness, compared to the fervent, bustling heat of Capiscala.
