TWENTY-TWO
Her eyes had been open for far too long and they felt dry as dust. Her lids scratched at them with every blink. No matter how many times Sophia had lain upon her bed, sleep remained elusive. Only the frightening images of the day had found her, haunting specters of murder attempted and unhappiness fulfilled. In the most desolate part of the night, she had relinquished the effort, rising from the feathers to sit at the oriel window, elbow on sill, head on cupped hand. She stared out into the night, watched the stars’ reflections on the canal twinkle and sparkle, listening to the words over and over again with each lap of the water upon the stone.
Pasquale’s power was too hard to deny, his disdain too entrenched. He would have the life he craved, with the money her family had ea
