            Lucius thrust the lamp into her hands before brushing past her. He paced the length of the parlor before spinning back, hair whipping at his neck. "You don’t have the files," he stated, pinching the bridge of his nose. The other hand came to his hip, the epitome of restrained exasperation. She would giggle, if the manor’s mood wasn’t as taut as a rubber band. She could feel it in the cool air, could feel her magic tainting it. Maybe even his, whatever leaked out from that copper cuff. The scent was bitter, rotten.