Ines stood with her hand on the brass handle of her bedroom door for a full minute. Her heart was not just beating; it was rearing, like a frightened horse.
This is foolery, she thought. Utter, complete, certifiable foolery. I am walking through my brother's house, in the dead of night, wearing a nightgown that is little more than colored air, to meet a man. A man who is not my husband. A guest in this house.
The house was a sleeping giant. The clock in the downstairs hall had chimed midnight ten minutes ago, each stroke a hammer blow against her nerves. She had heard nothing. No footsteps. No distant doors. Rowan was long asleep. The servants were in their quarters. The entire house was still.
Slowly, she turned the handle. The latch, well-oiled, made a soft, buttery snick. She opened the door, just a crack, and peeked out.
The hallway was a black void, a tunnel of shadow. The moonlight from the tall landing window was far away, offering no help here.
