Isadora stared. Her mother was carrying the Duke's upper body with an ease that should not have been possible for a woman who had spent God knew how long imprisoned, starved, and broken. She moved forward at a steady pace, her bare feet finding purchase on the wet stone as though the ground itself was accommodating her.
"Mother," Isadora said. "How are you — "
"Walk," Elenora said. "Questions later."
They reached the front door. It was oak, ancient, banded with iron that had gone black with age and salt. There was no knocker. No bell. No handle that Isadora could see.
She was about to slam her fist against it when the door opened on its own.
