Asher
Layla is standing at the end of the hall. She’s facing a painting, pretending to study the swirling brushstrokes that create the colorful grapevines.
“There she is,” I say. “The little spy herself.”
“I was doing what you did before, overhearing.”
I scoff at her bravado. “It’s good that I did.”
Layla turns toward me, her face emotionless. “Oh?”
A bark of a laugh explodes out of me. I ruffle my hair. “I told her the truth.”
“You did?”
“Yes. I can’t believe it either. I’m still shocked at how easy it was. The words just spilled out of me, Layla. Why was it no trouble to tell her about Kristina?”
The stiffness in her face blends away until she’s smiling kindly. Her shoes glide across the runner, not disturbing a single fiber. She’s able to move with the grace of a deer. Placing
