A grand old piece, taking more space than the drawing room affords it. It sits, fat, in it corner, glistening in stray sunlight, its surface clear except for that one, elegant volume. Madame’s diary.
Emily has read it a million times in her imagination. Her mind supplies staggering secrets, weaves clandestine narratives, reveals the truth of the lumpy sofa, the mysterious painter, the unwanted child.
She has never dared touch that desk.