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of Winnier’s memoirs. Thinking of this, she quickened her
pace.
     
    She arrived home to
find an empty box in the hallway of her house. The box was of the
sort her tailor, Baynson, packed garments in when they were to be
sent to the gentry. Strewn around it were wisps of scented
paper.
    Eva gave her coat to a
servant, then followed the trail of discarded packaging into the
study. Tren sat at her desk with several books and notebooks open
around him. He was wearing at least three shirts, and several more
were being used to pad the spines of the books he was studying.
    ‘That’s not what I had
in mind when I ordered Baynson’s finest,’ she observed.
    Tren looked up with a
grin. ‘No? Then what did you have in mind? You owed me two shirts
as I recall, but no less than twelve came out of the box.’
    ‘I was just making
sure.’
    ‘Making sure of what?
Are you planning to ruin several more of my personal garments?’
    Eva grinned. ‘It does
seem to happen when I’m around.’ Tren had ripped up one of his own
shirts to bind a hand wound for her, when they had been en route
through Orstwych some weeks ago. Later, another shirt had been
irrevocably damaged when they both took an unplanned dip in
ice-cold salt water. She had promised to replace them, and so she
had. She’d even provided an upgrade to the quality. A considerable
one.
    ‘This silk is
remarkably comfortable to wear, though a little thin,’ Tren
continued. ‘Maybe that’s what you had in mind: layers.’
    The multiple shirts he
wore were in clashing colours. He had a dark red shirt over a
leaf-green one, over a beautiful purple colour. Eva chuckled.
    ‘Baynson would have
heart failure if he saw you like that. By the way, there are
cushions for the books’ spines.’
    ‘I know, but if I am to
enjoy the luxury of pure silk shirts, why should I deny it to the
books? Lulled into a sense of pampered security, they will give up
their secrets the more easily.’
    ‘Ah. And how is that
working out?’
    ‘Quite well. For
example.’ Tren leaned forward in his chair and leafed through the
book that rested before him. Eva recognised the aged, dark leather
of Andraly Winnier’s book. ‘We - or at least, I - assumed that this
book, looking as it does rather terrifically ancient, is the work
of a long-dead author. However, there are some entries describing
recent events in the Lowers and - this is the good part - they’re
obviously written in the same handwriting as the oldest entries.’
He paged carefully through the book, demonstrating his point, and
Eva leaned over the desk to see. She had to agree: the newer script
was written in different ink, but the letters were formed in the
same manner.
    ‘You’re certain the
events described are recent? Maybe this isn’t the first time that
the Lowers have suffered this kind of disruption.’
    ‘Interesting that you
asked that. I am certain that these entries are very recent, yes,
but there are earlier entries describing the same kinds of things.
And these recent chapters refer to that. Here: The re-emergence
of the draykon race has upset the balance of Ayrien, causing
serious upheaval of a type previously observed and recorded during
the Eterna Conflict.’ “ Ayrien” seems to refer to the Lowers,
but I’ve yet to find any more references to an Eterna
Conflict.’
    ‘ Ayrien, ’ Eva
repeated. ‘I’ve never heard that term before, have you?’
    ‘Nope. I’m going back
to the City Library tomorrow to look for them both. That’s not all,
though. Look at this.’ Tren turned to approximately the middle of
the large tome, revealing the roughly-torn stubs of several missing
pages. ‘There are a few more torn out throughout the book. No
indication as to what they discussed.’
    ‘I wonder if Griel
removed them,’ Eva mused. ‘Though I can’t imagine why he might
have. It’s a pity we didn’t get longer to explore the tower; maybe
we could have found the missing pages.’
    ‘And who knows