I watched from the shadowed edge of the cottage, peering through the leaves as Riverdale and Agnes made their way down the narrow path. My heart beat with a slow, steady rhythm, my senses sharpened as I observed them. Riverdale’s face was tense, her eyes darting from side to side as though she feared every rustle, every shift of the wind. Agnes, her close confidante, walked beside her, looking equally pale and nervous, her hand pressed against her chest as if trying to hold her heart in place.
From where I stood, hidden yet ever-watchful, I couldn’t help but feel an ache of curiosity. It had only been a few weeks since I’d taken on this guise as “Lourdes,” a nameless face from another life. In a strange way, it felt freeing to shed the weight of “Queen Mitchell,” to exist as someone no on
