Lorraine stopped, steady and cold, watching the woman who should have been hollowed with grief after her husband and daughter's disappearance. Instead, Illyria gleamed as though preparing for a morning call, hair meticulously arranged, gown flawless, jewels flashing with each step.
Yet one thing was missing: the key she always wore on her waist, dangling from its ostentatious chain that was a declaration to the household that she alone commanded the family's coffers.
Lorraine's gaze shifted. On Lysander's wife's neck glinted that very key, threaded into a chain like an unspoken coronation. A laugh threatened to spill from her lips. Her father was gone for just a couple of days, and yet her brother had grown bold indeed if his young bride dared pry the key from Illyria's grip.
Good. The household was learning who it should obey.
But her musing was cut short. Illyria, in her arrogance, decided to raise her hand to strike Lorraine.
