When I go up to the library a few hours after dinner, Rosalia is already there. She’s sitting on a velvet chaise, and I’m relieved to see that she’s wearing leggings and a tank top—while it’s far from being unsexy, I’d been half afraid she’d show up in wedding night lingerie. She has a book balanced on her knees as she reads, and there’s a fire leaping in the fireplace, the heavy velvet drapes at the windows drawn. It might be less intimate than one of our bedrooms, but only barely.
There’s a glass of wine on the small table at her elbow, half-empty, and I have a feeling she’s had a drink to calm her nerves. I wanted one myself, but I couldn’t risk lowering my inhibitions. It will be hard enough to keep myself from touching her in any way that I shouldn’t, even entirely sober.
“So,” Rosa
