The storm came in from the west on a Saturday morning in late November, the kind that settled over a city and stayed, turning the sky the colour of old pewter and the streets into rivers of reflected grey. Aria woke to the quality of the light and knew immediately that it was a day for staying in. She felt it in the particular way that people who pay close attention to the world feel weather — not through sound but through light and pressure and the changed behaviour of birds on the ledge outside her window.
She dressed without hurry. She made tea. She took her sketchbook to the library.
Lucien was not gone. This was unusual for a Saturday. He was in the main room when she passed through, on a call, pacing with the particular energy of someone dealing with something that required active
