The question hung in the air, a stunning, scandalous, and utterly, bravely foolish thing.
Carcel was very, very still. He was a statue, carved from granite, his face a mask of pained, rigid control. He was staring at her, this small, absurdly brave creature, crouched at his feet like a supplicant at an altar, asking not for blessings, but for knowledge.
Ines, having asked the most terrifying question of her life, did the only thing she could. She squeezed her eyes shut. She could not bear to see his face. Another rejection or disgust, or even horror—she could not, would not, look at it.
She was still crouched on the floor, her hands now pulled back, clenched tightly in her lap, her robe pooling around her.
I must seem like a mad woman, her mind shrieked, a high-pitched, silent wail against the inside of her skull. A depraved, lunatic. He might think I'm going too far and would stop his lessons. And he would be right.
