Ines let out a breath that was half-laugh, half-sob. She rushed to the window and unlatched it. The cool night air flooded into the room as Carcel stepped inside.
He was dressed in dark clothes—black trousers, a black shirt, and a long dark coat. He looked like a thief. He looked like the most handsome thief in London.
"You should not be here," Ines whispered, though she grabbed his arm and pulled him further inside. "If anyone sees you..."
"Vance is watching the garden," Carcel said softly. He closed the window and locked it. "No one saw me."
He turned to look at her. His eyes were tired, but they were burning with the same intensity she felt. He looked at her ink-stained fingers. He looked at the stack of papers on her desk.
"You have been busy," he said.
"I wrote it," Ines said, gesturing to the desk. "The diary. It... it is hateful, Carcel. I wrote terrible things."
