I didn't speak.
Not when he wiped the blood from my dress.
Not when he told the staff to burn what I was wearing.
Not when I was taken to another room white, gold, windowless and handed a second dress.
This one was simpler.
Still white. Still cruel.
I put it on with shaking hands while a woman with gray hair and tired eyes fastened the buttons. Her fingers were gentle, but she wouldn't look at me. Wouldn't meet my eyes in the mirror as she smoothed the fabric over my shoulders.
She'd seen this before, I realized. Blood and innocent people dying
The thought made my stomach turn.
I didn't ask questions.
Not anymore.
When she was done the woman stepped back with her hands clasped in front of her in a sort of prayer. She seemed about to speak--to comfort, or warn, or merely to reco
