Rowan lowered the newspaper slowly. The rustle of the paper was the only sound in the large, sunlit dining room, but to Ines, it sounded like thunder.
He looked at her. His eyes, usually warm when he looked at his sister, were now narrowed and sharp.
"Ines," Rowan said, his voice calm but demanding. "Are you alright?"
Ines froze. She tried to pick up her teacup, but her hand was shaking too much. She set it back down.
"I am fine, Rowan," she said, her voice thin.
"You do not look fine," Rowan countered. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table. "You look… terrified. What did that letter say? What news could Miss Gladys possibly have sent that made the color drain from your face so quickly?"
Ines's mind raced. She couldn't tell him. She couldn't say, 'My publisher told me there's trouble.' She couldn't say, 'The scandalous book you were reading about in the paper was written by me.'
She needed a lie. A boring, mundane, uninteresting lie.
