A noise in the kitchen below lifted Connor Donmagh from his studies.
The candlelight on his desk flickered as he stood, listening again for the noise. There it was. Creaking floorboards and the muffled murmurers of two voices—Mother and Da—as they crossed the kitchen. To Connor’s knowledge, they were not expecting a midnight delivery. The paper never came this hour, neither did the ink supplier, nor the poets—not even the most eccentric poets would disturb a printer so late. At least, that was the reputation his parents had established in their many years of operation.
Perhaps they were restless. Or they’d forgotten to dim the lanterns in the library…