in all honesty, books had never been objects of particular interest to sabine. she liked stories best when they were the kind you told aloud — when the words tripped off your tongue, crackling and snappy and free, instead of laying about so lifelessly on the page. so it wasn't the shelves books that brought her back to the emerald nook so often, but rather, the presence of a woman who she greatly admired. ❝ listen, chérie, ❞ she began, idly turning the pages of a book of poems, and eyeing ingrid thoughtfully through mascara-thick lashes all the while. ❝ why don't you come out to the diamond room tonight? you work so hard, you deserve to enjoy yourself a little. i'll even dedicate a song to you. ❞