Three days had passed since I’d cornered Ingrid in our dormitory and spilled the truth in fits and stammers, expecting anger and bracing for abandonment. But she hadn’t stormed out. Not then. Not entirely. Since that night, things had grown quieter between us—but not cold. She still curled her legs beneath her on the common room sofa, still stole my hairpins, still rolled her eyes when I refused to add sugar to my tea. But there was a space between us now, soft-edged and unspoken, like the dent left behind when a picture is taken off the wall.
Now, we sat across from one another in the grand dining hall, trays resting between us, our plates half-picked through. The towering windows were trimmed in frost, the light outside painted in that strange hour of gold that felt like both afternoon
