Behind her, Penelope's jaw had tightened so severely it looked painful.
Her fists clenched at her sides, her nails digging into her palms hard enough to leave marks, and her entire posture radiated a tension that was barely contained beneath the surface of her composed exterior.
One of her companions - a woman named Naomi, elegant and sharp-featured and used to moving in circles where status was currency - leaned closer and spoke in a low voice that was meant to be private but carried just far enough to be overheard.
"Do you know her?" Naomi asked, her eyes moving between Penelope's rigid expression and Cora's figure near the entrance. "Do you actually know this person? Because it seems like you do. What the hell is going on here, and why are they treating her this way?"
Penelope did not answer immediately.
Could not answer, really, because any response she gave would require admitting things she had spent considerable effort avoiding.
