The bright, cheerful, morning sunlight was an act of war.
Carcel sat at the dining table, or perhaps slumped was a more accurate word. He had been there for ten minutes, his head in his hands, staring at the intricate patterns of the damask tablecloth. A footman, moving with a silence that was still somehow too loud, had poured him a cup of coffee. It sat, untouched, its steam rising in a mocking, cheerful plume.
Every sound was an assault. The clink of a distant spoon. The rustle of a servant's apron. The cheerful, offensive chirping of a bird outside the window.
He felt... ravaged. Not just by the whiskey, though there had been a great deal of that. He was ravaged by memory. By the scent of lavender and a woman. By the feel of damp, tangled curls in his fists. By the ghost of a high, sharp, whimpering cry.
He groaned, a low, pained sound, and pinched the bridge of his nose, his elbow resting on the table.
"Good God, Carcel. You look like death."
