The dim light of a desk lamp with a green glass shade snatched an island of order from the semi-darkness of the study: a polished oak surface, a neat stack of bound papers, a silver inkwell, and a fine quill. Outside the window of his Bloomsbury flat, night had long since fallen, and the city's murmur seeped faintly through the heavy curtains.

Atticus Wilson leaned back in his leather armchair, removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose wearily with his long fingers.

On the desk lay his personal diary, bound in thick leather, into which he wrote daily entries. The man took up the quill, dipped it in ink, and began to write, mixing languages and syllables to conceal his true thoughts, in a calligraphic hand markedly unlike his usual untidy scribbles in the margins of books.

Bloomsbury, 7 October, 02:17 a.m.

Dearest (for thus I address only the most esteemed volumes in my collection, and tonight, by a twist of fortune, you take your place upon that shelf—though perhaps but briefly),

I must acknowledge: I had not anticipated such ease. You proved far more malleable than I had calculated. My designs rested upon the intellectual hunger of the mind which I long discerned in your eyes during our exchanges upon Homer. It was upon that thirst I constructed the framework of our association, professor and protégé, confirmed by midnight vigils and, naturally, those dinners where both acquaintances and the public gaze bore witness.

But your docility has been a most agreeable supplement. Almost as though one were to discover a rare gloss in the margin of a manuscript one had believed already exhausted.

How readily you yielded to my honeyed means. First: the cognac from the crystal decanter (a commendable '62; I should have despised myself for anything less), then: my hands dissolving the tension from your shoulders, and at length: my face between your thighs. All most efficient.

Yes, you are now my living, breathing alibi. And, perchance, a diversion of temporary merit. Though I must remark: your naïveté already begins to weary me. But such a flaw admits of correction. ~~Or~~. . .

The soft shuffle of bare feet on the parquet made the man lift his head. The quill in his hand twitched, leaving a thick, unsightly blot precisely on the word or in the beginning sentence. The drop of ink spread, saturating the fatal word. A curse escaped his lips in a quiet hiss. In an instant, the journal was slammed shut with a dull thud; another swift motion, the desk drawer opened, swallowed the diary, and the click of the sturdy little lock sealed his secret within. The key glinted in his fingers before vanishing into the inner pocket of his tweed jacket, carelessly draped over the back of the armchair.

A door opened noiselessly.

You stood on the threshold, bathed in the soft glow from the living room: sleepy, wrapped in the warmth of drowsiness, your hair tousled. You were wearing only your— his— white shirt with pale blue stripes, slipped off one shoulder to bare your collarbone and part of your chest. The sleeves were rolled up, but still covered your wrists. You smiled at him trustingly (he would have said bashfully) with that tender smile that appears only in the haze after lovemaking, when the world seems safe. Your gaze, still blurred with sleep, sought him, fastening upon his silhouette at the desk.

Atticus shook the tension from his face instantly. A warm smile touched his lips, softening the sharp lines of his cheekbones and jaw. He reached out a hand to you, a gesture of authority but wrapped in the velvety veil of invitation.

"Come to me, my dear," his voice sounded with the patronising tenderness which had charmed you from the very first lecture, now peppered with intimacy that made your heart beat faster. "What are you wandering for, alone in the dark? You'll catch the chill."

He pulled you onto his lap. His movements were slow, deliberately gentle. "Missed me?" the man smiled slyly.