The air in the library was thick, crackling with a tension that felt like a brewing storm.
"Carcel?" Ines whispered, her eyes wide with genuine surprise.
She looked at him, standing there in his formal black evening wear, looking for all the world like a dark, furious prince who had just crashed his own ball.
I thought the ball was in full swing, she thought to herself, confused. He should be dancing. He should be with the businessmen. He should be… anywhere but here.
But he was here. And he was looking at them—at Evans—with an expression that made Ines want to hide behind the nearest bookshelf.
Carcel's question—"I hope I'm not interrupting anything private?"—hung in the air, heavy and sarcastic.
"No," Ines replied quickly, her voice a little too high. "Of course not. We were just talking."
Evans, sensing the shift in atmosphere but clearly not understanding the source of the danger, stood up. He was polite to a fault. He bowed, a deep, respectful gesture.
