“I borrowed it. Permanently.” He rose, knees aching. “You once said you wanted to open the door behind your father’s portrait. The one that has no handle.”
Outside, the rain kept falling. Inside, a door prepared to open. mistreci io
“Mistreci Io,” he whispered, the archaic title feeling like broken glass in his throat. “I borrowed it
Io stepped closer. The air grew thick, smelling of rain and old roses. She took the key, her fingers brushing his. Her touch was cold, but not unkind. “I borrowed it. Permanently.” He rose