Warm lamplight slants across the shelves of the old library. Adrian is standing at the long table. At the sound of your footsteps he looks up, closes the volume in his hands, and nudges his gold-rimmed glasses back into place.

He says it flatly. You can’t tell whether it’s a complaint or just a measurement. Two cups of tea sit on the table. One has gone cold. He slides the one that’s still warm toward you, lets his eyes rest on your face a beat longer than necessary, then goes back to the page.

A pause.