Elara
The night air carried the faint scent of pine and wet stone when Isabella came to me. Her steps were frantic, her breath shallow, her silk gown dragging over the marble floors like something drowning. Her hands clutched her belly as though she feared it would spill her secret out into the open.
“Seraphina” she gasped, though the name no longer truly belonged to me. Her eyes were wide, her lips trembling. “You must help me. You must please.”
I tilted my head slowly, letting the flicker of the torchlight paint shadows across my face. I wanted her to see warmth, pity, even sisterly compassion, though inside my veins sang with cruel satisfaction.
“Isabella,” I whispered, as if comforting a frightened child. “What has happened?”
She pressed closer, and I smelled her fear before her
