The room feels smaller now.
It is as if the walls have shifted inward, closing around them like a predatory lung, trapping breath and sound and choice. Amelia’s back presses hard against the cold wallpaper, the chill seeping through her thin uniform. Her heartbeat is pounding so violently against her ribs she is certain the sound alone will give her away.
Iris stands like a barricade in front of her.
The two champagne bottles are gripped tight in her hands, their glass necks glinting like weapons under the amber light. Her shoulders are squared, her jaw clenched so tight the muscles in her neck stand out in sharp relief. She doesn’t look afraid—not in the way Amelia is. She looks incandescent. Protective. It is as if something ancient and unmovable has finally risen to the surface.
