//CLARA//
The study smelled like ink and exhaustion.
Casimir had been working for three hours. Maybe four. I'd lost track of time somewhere between the first telegram and the fifteenth letter, my sense of reality dissolving into the rhythmic scratch of his pen against paper.
He sat behind his desk, coat discarded, waistcoat unbuttoned, sleeves rolled to his elbows. His cravat hung loose around his neck, and there was a smear of ink on his jaw where he'd touched his face without noticing.
He hadn't looked at me in twenty minutes.
I was curled on the settee by the fire, my legs tucked beneath me, my ruined emerald gown pooling around me like a crime scene. I should have changed. I should have bathed. I should have done something other than sit here, watching him work, feeling useless.
But I couldn't move.
