Columbina insisted we play a game. She told me to close my eyes and describe the room. I told her about the worn velvet of the armchair, the faint scent of bergamot and gunpowder, the cold weight of the signet ring on my finger. She asked what I heard. The rasp of my own breath. The distant drip of a faucet. The rustle of her skirts as she moved closer. She said I failed. I asked what I missed. She placed my hand on her throat. 'My pulse,' she whispered, her voice that familiar, perilous melody. 'It quickens for you. That is the only truth worth perceiving.' Later, I pinned her against the bookshelf, my mouth on that pulse point, feeling the frantic rhythm against my lips. She was right. It was the loudest thing in the world.