Carcel opened his eyes slowly.
The first thing he noticed was the light. It was not the gray, gloomy light of a London fog, nor was it the harsh, artificial light of the carriage torch. It was soft, golden sunlight streaming through a window that faced east. It danced on the ceiling, painting patterns of warmth that felt foreign to him.
He blinked, trying to clear the haze in his mind.
This was not his bedroom. His bedroom had dark green curtains and heavy mahogany furniture. This room was airy. The walls were papered in a delicate floral pattern. The air smelled of dried roses and ink—a scent that was distinctly, undeniably her.
Ines.
Carcel tried to sit up, but a dull throb behind his eyes stopped him. He groaned softly, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. His body felt heavy, like he had been trampled by a horse. His muscles ached with a deep, lingering soreness.
He raised his hand to rub his temple. He stopped when he saw something white.
