Ritchie looked around the bedroom she was sharing with Moreau, walking with her hands carefully folded behind her back lest she be tempted to touch something.
She knew everything she saw was some sort of antique, priceless and irreplaceable. The room was large and comfortable, the entire eastern wall nothing but opened glass doors that let in the warm afternoon air. Even all the way up here on the fourteenth floor, she could smell the grass and flowers. Strangely, the Immerweis were more muted, though. Perhaps whatever carried its scent was just too heavy to extend up so far.
But she decided that was a good thing. She had just emerged from the shower, and the warm breeze dancing through her curls was drying her hair for her. The grass and drier-smelling flowers would leave their scent be
