Lydia sat alone on her chair by the reading table, fresh from a hot bath. But no matter how hot the water had been, it hadn't warmed her. Her body was clean, her skin dry, but inside she felt like ice. A cold that no fire could touch. There was no comfort, no warmth. Just emptiness.
The room was quiet, too quiet. The kind of quiet that presses on your ears and makes your own heartbeat sound loud. Her fingers lay limp on her lap. Her breathing was shallow, slow. She wasn't tired. She wasn't even restless. Just hollow.
Her maids were with her, moving around quietly like shadows. They didn't speak unless they had to. They knew something was wrong.
