Tamara's pen paused upon the paper before her and a dollop of dark ink beaded upon its tip, then dropped upon the page. She chided herself and set the pen into the inkwell while she picked up the blotter and absorbed much of the ink. A spot like a black tear remained in the midst of the sentence she had been writing, but it was hardly the first, nor would it be the last. The first drafts of her novels were always a mess. She sat back in the chair and took a moment to enjoy the warm summer air that breezed through the open window above the desk. The sun was warm upon her hands, but its light did not stretch far enough into the room to reach her face. Still, she enjoyed the view out that window, with the grounds and the trees of the estate visible, the peak of the carriage house just at the edge of her vision, and then London unfolding in the distance.