As soon as she’s gone, I kick off those f*****g uncomfortable heels and curl my legs up andunderneath me.
There’s a small fire crackling in the hearth. Just enough to cast off a glow of warmth against theoncoming London gloom. More clouds are thickening outside my window, and right on cue, just likeBogdan said, rain begins to kiss the glass.
My eyes drift around the room. Now that the big picture shock has worn off, it’s the little details thatare amazing me. The chiseled horses cantering up and down the bedposts. The ornate frill of thelampshade. The gleam of the writing desk.
It’s the books that I come back to again and again, though. I can’t help myself. They’re an addiction Icannot quit for the life of me, no matter where I find mys
