*Althea*
I arrive at Knightley’s residence at an hour when decent folk are abed. His abode is dark except for a pale light filtering out through an upstairs window, his bedchamber window.
The realization that he might actually be entertaining a she-wolf strikes a momentary pain in my gut, something rather similar to what I suspect one endures when kicked by a wild horse. Standing in the exact spot where the servant had helped me out, I stare at the wavering light and imagine Knightley moving toward some long-limbed beauty as he had once approached me: slowly and provocatively, taking my breath and my sense. Perhaps I should leave this confrontation for tomorrow.
But my fury at what he has done is diabolically beautiful and needs to be vented, before it cools, so he will fully understan
