FAYE
I was halfway down the corridor to Irene’s room when I heard voices.
I hadn’t meant to listen. I was already turning the corner, already thinking about how I would knock, how Irene would probably be sitting on her bed with a book she wasn’t really reading, when Alexander’s voice reached me—low, tense, familiar in the way that tugged at something instinctive in my chest.
I slowed.
Then I stopped.
It wasn’t just his voice. Irene answered him, sharper than usual, threaded with disbelief. The sound of their conversation pulled me back like a hand closing around my wrist. I knew I should turn away. I knew better than to linger where I wasn’t invited. But my feet wouldn’t move.
Instead, I followed the sound.
They were standing a few steps ahead, near the tall windows that overlooked
