Arianne went to her study after lunch.
The house was empty. The twins were at school, Franz was at Rochefort Group, and Aunt Estella had gone to the market for the afternoon. The only sound was the soft hum of the wind against the windows and the occasional creak of the estate settling around her. She lowered herself into the chair at her desk—a process that required more care now than it had a month ago—and looked at the stack of journals waiting for her.
The first one lay where she had left it, its worn leather cover closed over the entries she had read the day before. Her mother's words were echoing in her mind. I want to love it. I want to love it so badly. But I'm afraid. She had carried those words with her all night, turning them over in her thoughts like a stone worn smooth by water.
