The morning was, by all accounts, beautiful. Sunlight, clear and bright, streamed through the tall windows of the Hamilton townhouse foyer.
Carcel came down the main staircase, his steps light. He was, for the first time in weeks, relaxed. He had, after his… session… with Ines, slept. He had slept deeply, dreamlessly, and had woken with a strange, new, and unsettling sense of… peace.
He was quite impressed. And his student was, he had to admit, the most dedicated, curious, and utterly fascinating pupil he had ever encountered. He was, he realized with a small, private smile, looking forward to their next lesson.
He entered the drawing room, adjusting his cravat, his mind already on how he midnight will turn out, on how he might explain, in pure, practical, simple terms, the next question on her… list.
He had come downstairs looking for Rowan. They had business to attend to and the shipping ledgers were waiting.
He stopped, his hand still on his cravat. The room was pitch black.
