Isolde, Elyria and I walked to our rooms. We told each other goodnight. I paused at my door, hand on the handle, staring at the wood grain.
“Ren?” Elyria asked.
I looked at her, took my hand off the door and walked to her room. “El, can I tell you something?”
“Of course,” she motioned for me to come into her room.
Since I’ve been at the estate, I’ve never come into her room. There was a faint scent in the room—something warm and familiar. Not perfume. Not floral. Like fresh linens, old paper, and something subtly citrusy. Photos and concert tickets were pinned on a corkboard near her desk. A hoodie draped on the back of her desk chair. There were books stacked on her nightstand. On her canopy bed, shear drapes, embroidered pillowcases, soft throw blankets were layered at the foot of he
