//CLARA//
I stopped worrying about the servants the moment Casimir's door clicked shut. Whoever had seen us on the stairs could keep their secrets. I had my own to bury.
Casimir didn't let go of my hand. His gaze trailing over the sodden, ruined hem of my grey cotton dress. I felt absurd standing on his hand-woven Persian rug in a garment that smelled of Pearl Street gutters like a smudge of charcoal in his gilded world.
"You're shivering," he noted with that terrifyingly soft concern.
"The rain was colder than I expected," I lied. It was getting easier—the way the words slid off my tongue without tripping.
He just stared at me, waiting for the crack. Waiting for the moment my eyes would dart away or my pulse would betray me against his skin.
"A walk you say," he repeated. "To where, Clara? You smell of woodsmoke and desperation and secrets. What are you keeping away from me this time?"
"Nothing." My breath hitched. "I told you. I just walked. I needed to think."
