The hallway was empty and drop-dead silent. Only the swish of midnight wind that tormented the curtains, chandelier and torans sung seducing lullaby. The moonlight was gliding over the floor, embracing the dinginess of the surface into a glistening icy aroma.
It had been some hours past supper and Peril had already retired to his room which was located somewhere on the fifth floor—quite a distance from the dining hall where she stood at the moment. They had had a small talk during the dinner where, though, he had not asked any relevant question about the journal, however, he seemed to be luring some indirect references that Swamy barely managed to dodge.
‘Peril was a very cunning man. He is concealing more than he has revealed. I can smell something fishy in his talks.’ Swamy
