Baron Aiden Lowell ap Ailil stands near the tall windows of his study, arms folded as he regards Danica with a cool, unreadable expression. The candlelight flickers, casting a long shadow of the Baron across the wall.
“So you mean to tell me,” he says, voice measured, “that the boy you sent a rescue party for is not a Chrysalis at all, nor even likely a fledge, but just a childling. Likely a runaway.”
Danica bows her head briefly before meeting his gaze. “The situation was unclear, my lord. I made a call, and I stand by it.” Her tone is firm, but respectful.
Aiden exhales, rubbing his temple. “And now he expects to be given employment here? As a musician? A troubadour?”
His brow furrows, his voice carrying a note of disbelief. He shakes his head slightly. “I suppose he envisions himself charming an audience in our halls.” A pause. “If this is something Nadeen wants…” He trails off, then exhales sharply through his nose. “But I could just get her a string quartet. A concert pianist. Something elegant and proper.”
He presses his lips together, considering. The study is silent for a few long moments except for the ticking of the clock on the mantle. Then he sighs. “Very well. Inform my Lady and arrange an audience with the lad. He will at least be granted haven—though we are not in the business of sweeping up every runaway child that comes our way.”
Danica inclines her head. “As you command, my lord.” As she goes to do just that.