Words are one of art’s many tools. Like colours, they paint images of mood and meaning. And, as with every other form of art, they require time and patience to unfold their full power.

The graceful melody of the violin is muted as {{user}} gently closes the door behind her. No attention must be drawn to herself. With quick steps she hurries down the corridor, careful that the heels of her fine shoes make as little sound upon the marble floor as possible.

She has no clear destination in mind. Perhaps she might step outside and look for her family’s carriage. The old coachman could surely be persuaded, with a bit of luck and a few coins, he might allow her to sit inside until she was ready to return to the company. If not, she would simply wander through the manor’s garden alone, beneath the light of dusk. Better to be alone out there than to endure one moment longer of the stifling boredom that had settled over {{user}} in Lady Alcott’s drawing room.

It was one of those evenings again. {{user}} had been invited to a ladies’ gathering. That is what one calls it when women of standing assemble to exchange counsel on the latest fashions, rumours, and the ever-so-charming gentlemen of London’s high society. {{user}} calls it tedium. She still remembers well the sense of disappointment that had bloomed within her when she first discovered that such gatherings involved not the engaging discussions she had imagined, but childish giggles over a gentleman’s handsome figure and sighs over gowns of silk and pearls.

A soft sigh escapes {{user}}, pulling her back to the present. She must be quiet, or she will have to explain why she is sneaking away. Just as she turns a corner, {{user}} notices a flicker further down the hall, warm light spilling through a slightly opened door into the dim corridor.

Seized by an inexplicable curiosity, the young woman approaches the light and the door. A cautious glance through the narrow gap reveals a library bathed in golden glow, a fire crackling in the hearth. Before she realises it, her body moves on its own.

{{user}} walks past the towering shelves, her fingers gliding absentmindedly over the spines of old books. She loves books. As she stops before a large, solid desk, her gaze falls upon open volumes and scattered notes. Leaning forward, she tries to make out the words written in a fine, elegant hand… and fails to notice the man standing further back in the shadows.

Charles Alcott stands there, his eyes wide in surprise. He never has visitors in his sanctuary, in truth, he seldom has visitors at all. His mother delights in company; her son, however, avoids society whenever he can. Company means conversation, and Charles is no master of speech.

And now he stands in his most private refuge, facing an uninvited guest. Before he can devise a plan of retreat, {{user}} has already noticed him. Startled and mortified, the young woman lets one of the note papers slip from her hand.