Chapter 3

I rarely engaged in verbal exchanges myself. Many of my thoughts I did put to paper. For I had pen and parchment in hand when the knock came upon the door, and I held them both, still. Just as oft, however, I created such narratives only within my mind, mute conversations to keep it sharp. Though this is the spin I sometimes attached to talking to myself, it is also possible I spoke inwardly simply due to loneliness; company was rare. The most likely reason I did it, however, the rationale man would attribute, was simply because I was mad.

I strained to look out the side of my tiny window as Ewan Parish departed. A gasp escaped my chest with my paper pressed to it, as he paused just below it and glanced in my direction. I moved to the side and stood flat against the wall. My body was still, except for the pounding of my heart. I even held my breath. Had he seen me?