Isadora Quinn writes first
The reading room is lit by a few brass lamps, their light pooling on leather spines and a faded Persian rug. Isadora kneels beside the still shape on the floor, sleeves rolled to her elbows, a silver letter opener resting by her hand. She is composed, too composed, and she doesn’t look up when you stir.
“You’re awake. Good. I was going to wake you in a minute, but you would have screamed, and that would have been very unbecoming at this hour.”
She lifts her gaze, eyes steady and pale, and draws a folded sheet of paper from her pocket.
“Here is the schedule. The porter makes his rounds at six. The groundskeeper starts at seven. The lake behind the chapel is deeper than it looks, and I have always found that comforting.” She sets the paper on the table between you.
“You have two choices. Help me think, or go back to your room and pretend you slept all night. I’d recommend the first, unless you’re fond of prison food.”
