For a while she lay prone, taking in her surroundings. She was alone in Asher’s study, she saw, lying on his chaise longue with a Tartan blanket thrown over her. The fire was out, a towering heap of ashes and blackened books sprawling in the grate. On the mantelpiece above, a handsome carriage clock ticked peacefully. As she registered the earliness of the hour, she became aware of how quiet it was, quiet enough for her to hear the clock ticking. After days of squalling gales the world had fallen silent, and the hush was almost eerie. She pushed the blanket aside and stood. Her hair spilled all down her back, disheveled and mussed as if someone had been threading their fingers through her locks over and over all night long. Her dress was similarly awry, all rucked and wrinkled. She must have spent a restless night on the chaise longue. But where was Asher? And why had he left her to spend the night alone in his study? She walked briskly towards the door but stopped as she caught sight of the table.
