Isla sat on the narrow bed in her small room in the servants’ wing, knees drawn up to her chest, arms wrapped loosely around them. The single bulb overhead cast a weak yellow glow, turning the plain walls soft and shadowy. She hadn’t changed out of her uniform yet; the apron still hung loose around her waist, the hem of her skirt creased from a long day of kneeling and scrubbing. Her hair, usually pinned back tightly, had fallen loose around her shoulders—tired strands clinging to her neck from the heat of the kitchen earlier.
She stared at the chipped paint on the opposite wall, trying to make sense of the strange hum that had been living under her skin since the cafeteria incident. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw black—endless, liquid black—swallowing her reflection in the bathr
