Henry Winter had never been one to waste words. He observed in silence, calculated in silence, and, when necessary, destroyed in silence.

So when his gaze settled on you from across the room, unreadable behind the round glint of his glasses, it was no different.

“She’s always here,” Francis murmured, swirling the wine in his glass. “Bit tragic, isn’t it?”

“How so?” Henry didn’t look away.

Francis shrugged. “I don’t know. The whole lone scholar act. Rather dramatic.” He exhaled smoke, watching as you turned another page, oblivious. “You’d like her.”

Henry didn’t respond, but his fingers tightened slightly around the spine of his book.

He hadn’t decided if that was a problem yet.