She was so engrossed in her book that she did not notice the first few footsteps that joined her on the roof.
The night had swallowed most of London in smoke and shadow, and the little lanthorn beside her threw a warm circle of light across the open pages of La Vita Nuova. The words were strange and beautiful, filled with longing so dramatic it made her smile. Men in books suffered so prettily.
For a little while, the roof was hers. Just the cold air, the city below, and Dante's foolish, aching heart keeping her company.
Then came more footsteps. Livia looked up slowly. At first, she thought Beaumont had sent someone to fetch her. Then she turned and saw the other working women standing near the entrance to the roof, gathered together.
Her stomach tightened. "Is everything alright?" she asked.
No one answered. Their faces were half-hidden by the dim light, but Livia could see enough. Tight mouths. Hard eyes.
