Rowan's fork was halfway to his mouth. He was staring at his sister. Carcel was a statue of stone, his eyes wide, his hand frozen on his teacup as he also looked at Ines.
"Carcel?" Rowan repeated. His voice was no longer amused or teasing. It was slow, and sharp, and very, very confused.
Ines blinked. The warm, dreamy haze that had enveloped her all morning popped. It vanished, replaced by a jolt of panic.
Oh, no.
Her mind, which had been so happily replaying the events of the library, scrambled.
Did I just say his name? Out loud?
Did I say it like... that? Like a lovesick, half-witted, mooning fool?
She could feel Rowan's stare, sharp and questioning. Worse, she could feel Carcel's stare, which felt like a physical weight filled with horror.
