Cecilia's pov
"It's a berry trifle," Belinda announced, her voice smooth as silk and practiced to perfection--like a flight attendant describing a crash landing with a smile.
Across the long, candlelit table, someone muttered, "Finally, something that doesn't look like a punishment."
"Praise the Moon Goddess," another guest whispered, not quite low enough. "Maybe this one won't try to kill us."
The collective relief was almost comical. After a parade of dishes that looked like failed science experiments, the appearance of real dessert was practically a religious experience.
It was well after nine, stomachs were growling, and with no way off the island until tomorrow afternoon--this might be the only safe meal we got.
Servants moved with choreographed precision, placing crystal bowls
