Isolde.
Isolde still couldn’t make sense of what had transpired in Draco’s chambers even now. She knew it wasn’t about the bet at the pit.
It was something more. Yet no matter how she tried to solve the puzzle, it remained difficult.
The clattering noise pulled her from her reverie. She looked down at her wounded knuckle, the one Edrand stepped on. Isolde swore to pay him back at the right time, maybe when she must have escaped from Bloomington.
Roga was addressing the wound, applying some stinging ointment on it. When she finished, she tied a fabric around it.
“This will allow it to heal, my lady,” the older female said, flicking her lashes up to stare at Isolde.
She just nodded. However, Isolde knew her wound, being minor, would heal fast without the fuss of treatment. Even thou
