Ines, victorious, was actually eating. She was, she discovered, ravenously hungry. She took a delicate, ladylike, and utterly triumphant bite of her kipper. She allowed her gaze, just for a moment, to slide over her "opponent."
Carcel looked dreadful.
He was still pale, his eyes were still red-rimmed, and he had abandoned his cold, offensive tea in favor of a glass of water, which he was nursing as if it were his last worldly possession. He was, she noted with a thrill of delight, the very picture of a man in torment. A dark, brooding, haunted man. She was already composing the scene in her head.
This new, strange, electric-charged quiet was broken by the sound of the dining room door opening.
Huxley, their butler, entered the room. He was holding a small, heavy, silver tray. On it, lay a single, thick, cream-colored envelope.
"For you, Your Grace," Huxley said, his voice a low, respectful monotone. He presented the tray to Rowan.
