The frost on the Rose's windows had grown a second skin, thick as lace, and the whole house smelled of snuffed candles.
Clara was dragged out of sleep by her hair.
She came up swinging, which was a mistake, because the hands that had her were not hands that cared. Two handlers, cold-fingered and bored. One of them caught her wrist before her fist landed. The other reached under her pillow, and found the hairpin on the first try.
"Looking for this, Petal?"
"Give it back."
"You won't be needing it." He dropped it into his coat pocket like a coin into a church box. "The Mistress wants you. Up. Don't make me carry you, I've only just had breakfast."
They took her through the corridor barefoot, in her shift, with her curls hanging loose around her face. Doors cracked open as she passed. Eyes, blue and brown and green, watched her go with the greedy, frightened curiosity of people who were glad it wasn't them.
