This is Myrkentown at its very finest, if one regards it with a gentle eye: a sprinkling of morning rainfall has left eaves and streetcorners damp, so that they glisten and sparkle beneath the morning sunlight; a faint haze of warmth already hangs in the air, so that all the world seems slightly wavering, slightly bewitched. One can safely ignore the fact of what this heat-wave means for Myrken, just for a little longer yet. One can safely ignore the meagre displays of food and produce upon these streets, because the streets themselves are somehow so lovely, and the morning so very pleasant.
Oh, such mornings as these! Their golden rarity suits them to lover's songs and assignations, to easy work in sundrenched fields and to good spirits upon the roads. To almost anything at all, really, that's not the damaging and questioning and murder of two very deserving men, so that it's doubly unfortunate that Ariane Emory's business today is precisely that. Lately come to an appreciation of such irony, she has travelled to the Constabulary with a small smile upon her lips, and it's very likely that every passerby has mistaken it for an appreciation of the morning's delights.
It's safe to believe that, too.
In any case, this is so uneventful a journey: Horse is given a place not far from the doors, and a moment is given to smooth back the hair from her brow, for red spinel and blackened steel glitter at her ear, and she will have these things seen, today. Like everything else, they have a particular meaning. When she moves for the door, this grey sliver of a thing, it is to greet Constables with that lingering smile, for she is as pleasant as the morning that's brought her here, and inquires so politely as to the High Constable's presence that she surely will not be refused an answer.
'It is time,' she adds at one point during this very short conversation, because that guarantees the response she requires.