When Samantha left Rina’s chamber that evening, fury still simmered in her veins. But she knew better than to act on anger alone. If Rina’s heart would no longer bend easily to her tears, then she needed another route—one that secured her position close enough to watch, to strike when the time came.
The kitchen was still buzzing with noise when she slipped back in, but Samantha did not linger. Instead, she went straight to the small chest she kept beneath her bedding. With careful hands, she drew out a small, embroidered pouch. Its faded threads still shimmered faintly, the delicate flowers stitched by her mother’s patient fingers when she was a little girl.
It was the last thing she should part with—yet Samantha did not hesitate.
“This will buy me more than memories,” she whispered, he
