Selene barely made it to her door before she was practically bouncing on her toes, the silk of her robe whispering against her skin.
She reached her chamber and swung the door wide, letting the glow of triumph flood the small space.
Martha stood waiting, hands folded, expression disciplined enough to look like duty rather than pleasure. Selene’s face split into a grin so wide it almost hurt. “He let me in,” she breathed, as if that alone were all she needed. “He let me in and... Martha, can you believe it? He actually listened. He said he finally saw the danger of having that Freya around... can you imagine? He finally understands.” She flopped down onto the chaise and began dragging clothing from a trunk with more force than care, as though each garment were an accessory for victory.
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