Two days had passed since the fire, and the silence in Mirewood Hall was not peaceful; it was the heavy, breathless quiet of a held breath before a scream.
Isadora sat in the solar, a high-ceilinged room of dark oak and darker velvet, pushing a needle through a length of midnight-blue silk. The fabric was for Seraphyne—a gown the vampiress had demanded with a smile that promised violence if the hem wasn't perfect.
Outside, the sky was a bruised purple, swollen with a spring storm that refused to break. Thunder grumbled low in the throat of the valley, vibrating against the leaded glass panes.
"You are going to stab yourself, darling," a voice drawled from the chaise lounge across the room. "And while I appreciate a little blood before dinner, I'd prefer you didn't ruin the rug. It's older than the monarchy."
Isadora didn't look up. She stabbed the needle through the silk with a little more force than necessary.
