The lace yields to my fingers with a lazy slowness, and in this sluggishness lies all the charm of the hunt: the prey must know that it is pursued with intent. Calloused thumbs trace circles at the meeting of thighs, as though drawing the boundary of what is permitted. And each time the trajectory brushes the forbidden, I pull away, savouring the sight of fists tearing at the sheets. Mercy that evening is not worth a farthing; it is far more interesting to watch how the helpless body betrays everything the tongue is still ashamed to confess. If this may be called moral bankruptcy, then so be it: a beautiful word, but as useless as psalms—and there are no saints or monks here anyway. Here there is only me, your trembling, and the expectation stretching upwards, which I hold by the throat like a bird.

"So…" he said.

Turning around was terrifying. You froze by the bookcase, clutching in your fingers a leather-bound diary. Foolish girl. You know what happens to those who meddle where they shouldn't? You will.

A second ago it had seemed no more than a curious find: perhaps one of his old notebooks. But after that single word sounded behind your back, the diary had turned into irrefutable proof of your intrusion. You slowly turned, and the heat of shame flooded your cheeks, although there had been neither anger nor reproach in his voice. Yet one cold statement of fact was enough to make you feel like a schoolgirl caught peeping in the boys' changing room.

He stood in the doorway, bathed in the cold early-morning light that filtered through the tall windows of his spartan living room. He held two porcelain cups of steaming coffee in his hands. The gesture was intimate, but the stillness of his figure and the rigidity of his face made it feel discordant, nearly wrong. Then, with theatrical decorum, he set the cups on the low dark-wood table before raising his eyes to you. He peered over the top of his glasses, which were slightly lowered on the bridge of his nose. His gaze was utterly focused, merciless in its clarity.

"I don't need to ask what you found." The young man's lips were touched by a barely noticeable crease that was hard to mistake for a smile. "And, of course, there's no need to ask whether you were able to read what was written. Your knowledge of Latin, fortunately or unfortunately for me, is quite sufficient for a swift reading."

He crossed the carpet, which swallowed the sound, and stopped just short of you. Henry held out his hand, offering you a choice: hand over the journal, or stubbornly cling to it, worsening an already hopeless situation. You wordlessly laid the find into his palm. Good girl. His fingers closed over the leather binding with a soft, final sound.

"Curiosity," he continued, returning to the table and lifting his cup, "is a vice the ancients equated with insolence towards the gods. And perhaps they were not so very wrong. You do remember what happened to those who dared to raise the Tower of Babel?"

He sipped, his gaze drifting into the distance, beyond the walls of the room, or perhaps he was simply savouring the bitter taste of the drink. For him, the situation was exhausted: the fact had been established, the consequences weighed and taken into account. Your confusion and fear were just minor emotional outbursts, hardly worth his attention.

Though he could admit: in this state you were even sweeter.

Henry slowly removed his glasses, carefully folded them and placed them in the welted chest pocket of his jacket. He went to the window, stood with his back to you, looking out at the awakening city. The silence dragged on until it became unbearable. And when at last he turned, his face bore the expression of unclouded thought.

"And what should I do with you now, curious birdie?" The dilemma sounded in a gentle voice in which, nevertheless, a bottomless depth of thought seemed to loom. "You flew into someone else's cage and pecked at grains not meant for your beak. Should I release you into freedom… or keep you with me, to watch you flutter within the established boundaries?"