Winter settled differently inside a house than it did outside. Outside, it made a scene — wind pushing at everything, pale light draining the color from the street, frost along the iron gate. Inside, it was something else. Less announced.
Franz stood at the kitchen counter holding a glass, not sure how long he'd been there. The condensation had gone cold against his hand. He hadn't taken a drink.
Across the room, Arianne sat at the table, back straight, one elbow on the wood. A file lay open in front of her. She looked at it without turning the page. The lamp cast a narrow cone of light over the papers, the rest of the room receding around her. The tea beside her had cooled long ago.
He watched her eyes track a paragraph once, then again — slower the second time. She didn't notice she was rereading. Her shoulders were set too tightly, a tension along her neck that hadn't been there earlier. She hadn't removed her watch.
