The garden was quiet, save for the lazy hum of a bumblebee near the foxgloves. Ines quietly sat on the stone bench, her hands gripping the leather cover of the book in her lap so tightly that her knuckles were white.
She stared at Carcel. She was waiting for the punchline. She was waiting for the laugh. She was waiting for him to tell her that he was joking, that her scribblings were the silly fantasies of a bored spinster, fit only for the fireplace.
"Are you teasing me?" she asked. Her voice was small, suspicious, and threaded with a fragile hope she was trying desperately to crush.
Carcel turned his gaze from the roses back to her. The sunlight dappled through the leaves of the oak tree, casting shifting patterns of light and shadow on his face. He looked… comfortable.
He smiled. It was not the wicked, dangerous grin of the library. It was a soft, quiet expression.
"What would I gain by lying to you, Ines?" he asked gently.
