The bundle sagged in the guards' arms.
A shape too still.
A head hanging at an unnatural angle.
“No," Isabella whispered, stepping forward.
They laid Nancy on the floor as if setting down an empty sack.
Her wrists were raw ropes of bruises. Her small, neat hands—hands that had mended every seam in the villa—were swollen and twisted, fingers broken at odd angles. Her face was slack, lips cracked.
Isabella knelt, the cold from the stone seeping into her knees. “Nancy," she breathed. “It's me."
There was no answer.
---
The guards shifted, suddenly uneasy under her gaze. One of them cleared his throat. “The Luna's orders—"
Isabella lifted her head. Whatever they saw in her eyes stopped him mid-sentence.
“Leave," she said.
They obeyed.
---
She took Nancy's ruined hands in hers. “I
