Isla sat alone in her small room in the servants’ wing, the door locked and the single bulb overhead casting a weak, yellowish light. She was still in her maid uniform, the fabric slightly damp from the slime that had been dumped on her during the pre-show. She hadn’t changed yet. She couldn’t bring herself to move.
Her mind kept replaying the moment on stage — the heavy wolf head, the laughter from the crowd, the sticky green slime pouring down, the way Amy and Sera had smiled as the head was lifted off and everyone saw her face. The humiliation burned in her chest. She didn’t want to do it again. She didn’t want to step foot on that field or wear that costume ever again.
She knew Amy and Sera were behind it. The way they had looked at each other, the way the bucket had been placed exac
