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Tyrus looked up from the globes on his worktable, meeting his nephew’s eye. Annon thought he saw a glint of satisfaction—like one a fisherman would display after discovering a fish had swallowed the bait.
“Annon,” Tyrus said, dipping his head slightly while fingering a vial and setting it back on the ironwork. He looked almost exactly as Annon remembered him from the last time they had met, the same amber-brown hair and beard flecked with gray. He was a rawboned man, a giant of a man, his very presence intimidating. His hands looked strong enough to crush Annon’s, yet they handled the glass with a deftness that belied his size. His eyes were piercing and greenish-gray, a mix of dawn and grass that probed Annon instantly, measured him, and found him lacking. “Get the door, will you?” he commanded, returning to some work on his desk, sorting a tray of gemstones by size.
Annon’s temper began to simmer at the The Dukes of Hazzard Auto Car Sun shade contemptuous greeting. But he was eighteen, not eight. A man now. He pushed at the nicked door and it slid shut with a firm thud.
The floor was made of stone tiles, arranged in a complicated succession of angles, but Annon noticed obvious scorch marks throughout. It was swept and showed no dust. He expected the air to smell musty, but instead it contained a strange mix of fragrances—like cooking spices and flowers he could not name, as well as the hint of wood wax. The books on the window seat were of various sizes, but all bound in leather with ornate gold fluting at the corners. Some were quite hideworn and others relatively new. Annon could not discern a speck of dust except for on the windowsill.
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