The night was vast and boundless. The sky looked as if it were swathed in thick, dark ink, so deep and heavy that not a single star could be seen.
In the courtyard, under the dim light of a carved wooden lamp post, Sebastian Lockwood leaned half his body against a pillar. He tore open a pack of cigarettes, pulled one out, and gently tapped it against the box.
He placed the cigarette between his lips and tilted his head slightly. CLICK—the lighter's flame illuminated one side of his face, making it startlingly clear.
He took only one drag before raising his hand to extinguish it.
A two-year-old cigarette had long since gone stale.
'Just like the years that have passed between him and Sydney Sawyer. Perhaps their feelings have gone stale, too.'
"Craving a smoke?"
Sebastian Lockwood looked toward the voice. "Grandpa."
The old man was in his pajamas with a jacket thrown over them against the cool night air. "Trouble at work?"
"No."
