Ines stopped looking at him. The intensity of his gaze—that dark, frustrated, angry stare—was too much. It was a silent, confusing accusation, and she had no idea what crime she had committed.
She turned her gaze, deliberately, to her brother.
Rowan was still talking, his voice full of a new, bright, energy. He was, she realized with a cold, sinking feeling, discussing her "reading addiction" with the same cheerful, problem-solving tone he used for his shipping ledgers.
She looked down at her own lap, at the small, plain, gray-gloved hands folded there.
It's not like I want to spend all my time reading, she thought, a familiar, dull, and very private frustration rising in her.
Her gaze drifted to the window, to the bright, open, free world outside.
In reality, a woman can't go far alone. Maybe to some shops, downtown. To a lending library, if she is properly escorted. To a relative's house.
That was her cage. A soft, gilded, and very small cage.
