Cara walked silently down the long, empty hallway. Each step felt heavy with hurt and disappointment.
When she reached the servants’ quarters, she found Myra still sitting at her usual desk near the entrance.
Cara hesitated for a moment, then slowly approached and said in a low voice,
“Mrs. Myra, the dress… it’s torn.”
That morning, Myra had only given her two dresses, one of which she had just washed in the evening and was still wet. The one she was wearing now was no longer suitable for work.
Myra frowned, her already stern face becoming even more unapproachable.
“How is it torn? I just gave it to you this morning. It was newly made.”
“It was… ripped,” Cara replied, then opened the leopard fur cloak draped over her.
Well, this time Myra didn’t need to ask further. The claw marks
