Sunday arrived with clear skies and cool morning air.
Azael stood in the center of his room while Isabel worked the buttons of his jacket with quiet, practiced efficiency– her fingers moving through the familiar motions, her expression focused in the way it got when she was concentrating on something small to avoid thinking about something larger.
He watched her.
She was in her full Victorian maid's outfit pressed and immaculate as always, the dark fabric fitted neatly at her waist, her black hair tied in neat bun.
Her round glasses sat precisely where they always did. Through their lenses, her eyes were doing something she was trying not to let show.
She finished the last button and smoothed the front of his jacket with both palms, checking the collar, adjusting the lapel by a fraction.
Then she stepped back and looked at him.
Her expression was composed and professional.
But her eyes gave her away.
