EMMALINE
The footsteps stop outside my door.
For a moment, there’s only silence, so heavy it makes my ears ring. Then, a soft click. The handle turns.
I take a small step back, my fingers curling at my sides, ready to defend myself if I have to, even though I know I wouldn’t stand a chance against Dante’s guards. The door opens slowly, and light spills into the room from the hallway.
But it isn’t Dante.
A woman steps inside. She’s dressed in a simple brown gown, an apron tied neatly around her waist. Her hair is tucked under a white scarf, wisps of gray escaping around her temples. She looks older, maybe in her fifties—with lines etched deep around her mouth and eyes.
When she sees me standing there, tense and wide-eyed, she quickly raises a finger to her lips. “Hush,” she whispers.
