"That's a good point," Kieran agreed, "Especially with subjects who are so difficult to —"
His statement trailed off as he caught the illustration pinned to the inside cover of her notebook. He only saw it for a few seconds, but it was long enough for Kieran to recognize the work — of course it was, because it was his work, a sketch he had done of the willow trees in early bloom a little over a week ago, and that he had sent to M.
Kieran's thoughts raced through his letters with M over the past several months, as well as the flippant letter he had sent Miss Binns following her appearance in Witch Weekly. The woman in front of him cared about werewolves, at least academically — she had a lot of thoughts on werewolves. So, evidently, did M. There had been something weird with the stationary but Kieran had dismissed it. M had a professed weakness for sweets and Witch Weekly had documented Miss Binns', but that was hardly damning in and of itself. He wished he could have their letters in front of him to look — it was hard to run through them when he was so caught off guard.
He pressed one hand to his satchel, where he had his charcoal and pencils, notes from a few stories, and some of the recent letters from M, all tucked away. He'd lost some of the color in his face.
He tugged at his sleeves to pull them down, although they were already covering the scarring on his arms. "— my apologies, Miss Binns," Kieran said, looking from her to his bag to her hands on the notebook, "Where were we?"
Maybe he'd imagined it; maybe he hadn't.
His statement trailed off as he caught the illustration pinned to the inside cover of her notebook. He only saw it for a few seconds, but it was long enough for Kieran to recognize the work — of course it was, because it was his work, a sketch he had done of the willow trees in early bloom a little over a week ago, and that he had sent to M.
Kieran's thoughts raced through his letters with M over the past several months, as well as the flippant letter he had sent Miss Binns following her appearance in Witch Weekly. The woman in front of him cared about werewolves, at least academically — she had a lot of thoughts on werewolves. So, evidently, did M. There had been something weird with the stationary but Kieran had dismissed it. M had a professed weakness for sweets and Witch Weekly had documented Miss Binns', but that was hardly damning in and of itself. He wished he could have their letters in front of him to look — it was hard to run through them when he was so caught off guard.
He pressed one hand to his satchel, where he had his charcoal and pencils, notes from a few stories, and some of the recent letters from M, all tucked away. He'd lost some of the color in his face.
He tugged at his sleeves to pull them down, although they were already covering the scarring on his arms. "— my apologies, Miss Binns," Kieran said, looking from her to his bag to her hands on the notebook, "Where were we?"
Maybe he'd imagined it; maybe he hadn't.