Isolde had no idea how terrible the night was going to get for her. No idea at all.
She was trembling violently, clutching her own arms in a futile attempt to hold herself together, trying her best to keep perfectly still. She did not want to breathe out loud; she did not want to breathe at all, because she knew that being discovered would mean her certain death.
She heard the sound of Raula's footsteps retreating at last and let out a shaky sigh of relief. It was a monumental mistake. That single, quiet exhalation was what finally gave Raula a whiff of her presence, what made the assassin turn back toward the large wardrobe.
Isolde, from her hiding place, heard the wardrobe doors creak open. Then there was nothing. No cry of discovery. Just the rustle of clothes.
