Dominic had hoped for a quiet evening alone in his study, a goblet of strong wine and the silent company of his maps his only companions. His mother, however, had other plans.
He came out of his room, his mood as dark as the black tunic he wore. He hadn't bothered with formal attire, his damp hair was unruly, pushed back from his forehead with an impatient hand. He strode towards the West Wing, his long legs eating up the distance in the echoing corridors, the memory of his conversation with Matron Helga still ringing in his ears.
"Dinner is ready, Your Highness," She had informed him an hour earlier.
"Good, thank you" he had replied without looking up from a report. "Have it sent to my study."
"Forgive me, Your Highness," she had said, her voice unchanging, "but your meal has been set in the West Wing dining parlor."
He had looked up then, his eyes narrowing. "Why the West Wing?"
