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February 15 - February 20, 2023
Ian set aside the brandy and dipped his pen in the ink. He bent down to write and caught sight of the droplet of black ink hanging on the nib in a perfect, round sphere. He stared at the droplet, something inside him singing at the perfection of the ball of ink, the glistening viscosity that held it suspended from the nib. The sphere was perfect, shining, a wonder.
“Find out everything you can about a Mrs. Ackerley, a widow now betrothed to Sir Lyndon Mather. Tell me about it tonight.” “Oh, aye? Why are we so interested in the right bastard’s fiancée?” Ian ran his fingertips lightly over the box again. “I want to know if she’s exquisite porcelain or a fake.”
He lost himself contemplating the sparkle of every facet on each tiny diamond until the water turned cold, and Curry worriedly pulled the plug on the drain.
“My father called me a liar because I said I’d only heard it once. I told him I didn’t know how to lie, so he said, ‘Better be thought a liar, because what you’ve done is unnatural. I’ll teach you never to do it again.’ ”
It rose in him when he wanted to explain things but couldn’t find the words, when he couldn’t understand the nonsense everyone around him was babbling. As a child he’d done the only thing he could—lashed out with fists and screaming until two footmen had to hold him down.