“Mrs Arnault?” A sheepish voice called to the rival side of the door as I would tear myself from this forced slumber, temporarily believing that perhaps the events of these last few weeks had been a wicked conjuring of my fears personified into an alternate reality. But as I could recall that ache of forced fingers having bruised my skin coming to life along with my consciousness, I would pull myself hesitantly to my feet before answering the door to find one of the maids, the same one I yelled at the day before, to have now brought me a tray for breakfast. A full spread of aromatic favorites such as eggs, bacon, fresh fruit, and an English muffin lathered in the perfect exchange of butter and jelly, my heart fluttered for just a moment as I saw the touch of a tulip set in a petite vase ad
