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It was neither approval nor rejection, merely a simple gesture-as though he had seen a tree by the roadside, or a cloud in the sky.
"The sword is sharp,"
he said, "but the hand holding it matters more."
The hall fell briefly silent.
Only the distant mixing sounds from the kitchen continued, their rhythmic impacts sounding particularly grating now.
Doffy suddenly turned and headed toward the corridor on the other side of the hall.
His footsteps echoed over the flagstones, unhurried, as though this entire scene had nothing to do with him.
Rossi did not follow.
He remained where he was, both hands in his coat pockets, his shoulders hanging loosely.
The posture made him look utterly defenseless, but Charlotte Linlin noticed that his feet remained angled for the easiest application of force-his left foot turned slightly outward, his right heel lifted a little, his weight resting on the balls of his feet.
It was a stance from which he could spring forward or retreat at any moment.
"Your terms,"
the woman on the throne finally said, weariness seeping into her voice, "I accept.
But I want to see sincerity."
"The sincerity is already on the table,"
Rossi replied. "You were the one who pulled your hand back first."
Charlotte Linlin pressed her lips into a straight line.
She stared at the figure below, trying to find a crack in that calm face-a trace of hesitation, a hint of greed, or any emotion she could exploit.
But she found nothing.
That face was like a lake covered by a thin sheet of ice: smooth, hard, reflecting nothing.
A sudden chill ran through her.
It came not from the temperature, but from something deeper-that composure that treated everything as calculable, tradable, disposable. She knew it all too well.
Because it