Chapter 5Someone was standing by the garden window, next to the low bench, looking out at round glowing topaz garden-lights in the rain. An inch or so shorter than Arthur, he shifted weight in the way of a man ginger about soreness and stiffness and a recent carriage accident. His shoulders eased a fraction, after a second.
Books framed him, gazed at him, wreathed him in shelves of stories. Tan and crimson and violet and brown, antique and new, they echoed his posture: some scuffing around the edges, a bit battered, but at peace.
“Oh,” Arthur said, astonished at the moment and the scene and the presence of another person and his own immediate concern. “Did you need something?” More tactful questions no doubt existed, but he couldn’t think of any.
“No, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude
