The gray sky outside the library window wept.
It was a slow, steady rain, the kind that turned the world into a painting of slate, charcoal and damp green. Raindrops raced each other down the cold glass pane, distorting the view of the garden below, turning the rosebushes into shapeless, shivering blobs.
Ines stood at the window. Her forehead almost resting lightly against the cool glass, stealing a bit of its chill to soothe the constant, low-level fever of her anxiety. Her hands were clasped tightly in front of her waist, her fingers interlaced so hard the tips were turning a waxy white. She looked like a statue of melancholy, dressed in a gown of pale sage green that seemed to fade right into the gloom of the afternoon. She was motionless, save for the shallow rise and fall of her chest.
"Ines."
The voice was sharp and familiar. It cut through the sound of the rain like a pair of scissors cutting through thread.
