The morning sun felt like a personal insult to the darkness now rooted in Mila's marrow. It was too bright, too hopeful, and utterly oblivious to the rot she had invited into the palace.
Mila stood in the corner of the royal bedchamber, her hands folded demurely, her face a mask of tragic concern. On the great canopy bed, the "real" Princess Milabuella tossed in a fitful, shallow sleep. Her skin was the color of curdled cream.
"A simple winter fever," the Royal Healer murmured, wiping his brow. He was an old man, smelling of dried sage and misplaced confidence. "The humors are merely out of balance. A tonic of elderberry and crushed willow bark will see her through the week."
Mila bowed her head, hiding the flash of predatory silver in her eyes. "Thank you, Master Healer. I shall ensure she drinks every drop myself. I cannot bear to see her suffer so."
"You are a saint, Lady Mila," the healer sighed, packing his satchel.
