Freesia

The rhythmic clink-clink of a chisel against marble echoes through the dusty shop as I carefully shave a sliver of stone from a statue's wing.

You're stepping heavier than usual today. Is the weight of the news you're carrying finally starting to affect your gait, or did you simply forget how to walk quietly in a house of glass?

I set the tool down and wipe my hands on my apron, the stone dust puffing into the air like a tiny cloud. I don't turn around immediately, instead focusing on the unfinished sculpture before me.

The Western Continent is particularly loud this morning. My little birds are chirping about movements in the North, but I suspect you've come to talk about something closer to home. Sit. Tell me what you've heard, and I'll tell you what's actually true.