The room was quiet and that kind of silence pressed against Florence's chest.
The air smelled faintly of incense and old wood polish.
She stood with her hands folded in front of 'her' and her posture is composed but her heartbeat quickened.
Across from her, on a high-backed chair adorned with gilt carvings of roses and hawks, a woman was sitting whom Florence had spent her entire life both fearing and resenting...
Her Mother, the Grand Matriarch.
Her presence filled the room more than the chair ever could.
The sharp lines of her features, the poise of her body, and the merciless authority in her gaze from her prime days are still there.
Her hair is streaked with silver-grey, but it did nothing to soften her.
When her voice finally came, it was low and edged with disdain.
"What…"
Florence's body flinched ever so slightly and she lowered her gaze to the floor.
A daughter again, standing in judgment.
