The wing in which Serathine had politely exiled her was too quiet after dinner.
No soft footsteps in the hall, no clink of porcelain from the tea service, no piano echoing faintly from the drawing room. Just the kind that curled up in the corners and made her shiver from the thought of being watched.
Ophelia sat on the edge of her bed, her posture too straight to be comfortable, hands folded in her lap like she was still at the table. She hadn't eaten much. She never did. Meals at House D'Argente were more lonely; even though Serathine was generous with her food and drinks, and she could have anything she wanted, Ophelia couldn't let her and Misty's work drift. She couldn't gain weight and destroy what she had done until now.
That was what her mother used to say, wasn't it? "Pretty girls eat carefully. Beautiful ones plan ahead."
Ophelia still chewed each bite like it might betray her.
