//CLARA//
I settled back against the velvet carriage seat, the day's triumph still humming in my veins. Oliver's Linotype had performed beautifully—better than I had dared hope—and the warehouse crowd had responded with the kind of enthusiasm that meant contracts, expansion, a future built on something other than family name and social maneuvering.
But none of that mattered now, not with Casimir sitting across from me, his coat finally unbuttoned, his posture that particular blend of rigid and unraveling that I had learned to read like scripture.
"You were magnificent today." His voice was rough, but not from today's fatigue. "But you already know that."
I laughed, tilting my head to watch him through the dim carriage light.
"Magnificent in the warehouse, or—"
