//CLARA//
Apparently, my brain decided that a traumatizing warehouse in the middle of the night was the perfect place for a romantic epiphany.
Casimir tucked the letter into his pocket.
"The carriage is waiting, Clara. Let's leave this place to the rats."
I didn't move. The adrenaline was curdling into something bitter. Casimir noticed, his brows furrowing.
"Are you alright?"
I forced a smile, though my mood had soured like milk left in the sun.
"Of course. Why wouldn't I be?"
He stared at me, trying to peel back my skin and see what was underneath.
The silence stretched.
The warehouse pressed in around me. Shadows pooled in the corners. Rust and machinery hung in the air. The half-assembled Linotype stood in the gloom like a skeleton.
"You are quiet," he observed. "Is it your foot? Are you unwell? We should leave—let me tend to it."
