Anne sat at a small table in a discreet corner, looking out the window at the busy street. She wasn't watching the carriages or the people hurrying by under their umbrellas. Her gaze was distant, her expression completely lifeless. The storm of emotion that had ripped through her in the last few days—the shock, the grief, the rage—had passed, leaving behind a vast, hollow calm. She felt like a porcelain doll whose inner mechanisms had finally wound down.
The bell above the shop door tinkled softly. A woman entered, wearing a fashionable but simple dress, her face obscured by a thick, dark veil. She moved with a furtive quickness, her eyes scanning the room. When she saw Anne, she walked directly to the table and sat down in the chair opposite her.
