The Knock at Dusk
The room was lovely, swathed in a balance of pale whites and muted greys. All appeared caressed by a subdued elegance—polished furniture that shone, silk drapes rustling lazily with the breeze, pale golden candlelight seeping across the walls.
The large window was open, inviting in the evening wind. It was chilly and scented, bearing with it the perfume of flowers from far away in the mansion gardens. The air wove through the space like a living entity, pulling at the curtains, sweeping over the pale surface of the marble floor.
Under that window lay a low couch, covered in deep grey upholstery. A small side table lay nearby, with a porcelain teacup steaming very faintly with a floral scent. And on that couch, half reclining, her slender form poised with quiet elegance, was Cassidy.
