Isla
The sapphire caught the pale morning light the way still water catches it—holding it, then releasing it in fragments across the ceiling above my bed.
I'd been awake for half an hour already, sitting in the bergère chair with the walnut box open in my lap, the brooch resting against the heel of my palm. Not looking at it, exactly. More the way you look at something you're not sure you're allowed to have—sidelong, already constructing the argument for giving it back.
The guilt had arrived sometime during the night, settling in with the particular stealth of things that wait until you're defenseless to make themselves known. I'd fallen asleep thinking about Anya's gray eyes—Conrad's eyes, the same storm-water color—and her hands holding mine, and play for me sometime, before I forget
