“The night we met,” she says, resting the cards on top of her still-full glass of sherry, “do you know what drew me to you on the stairs? What has drawn me to you, every night thereafter?” Charlotte shakes her head. In truth, she does not know. Has never known. “My quaint pastoral charm?” she quips, even as a tear escapes. Sabine’s mouth twitches. “It’s the way you cannot hide your feelings. If they do not spill out of your mouth, they shimmer on your skin. They fill the air around you, so loud they almost shout.”
