But they weren’t sensible. They were tipsy. They danced in the rain. Besides, they were indoors, sort of—as well as outside: a bit of both, all at once. Aurienne’s bare feet danced from the balcony’s cold stone to the bedroom’s warm floorboards and back again. The wet splashed indoors; the lamplight glowed outdoors; the rain washed the distinctions away. Water dripped against Mordaunt’s neck, and Aurienne’s bodice, and his temples, and her lips, and wrote things there in calligraphies long forgotten. Their shadows also spoke things in their twine and untwine against balcony railing and white
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