Lorraine's eyes landed on the boys seated at their study desk, backs straight, books still open before them, an oil lamp flickering though the stained glass spilled the room with enough autumn light. They wore woolen tunics, warm against the season, but their stillness was colder than the air itself.
Illyria, for all her faults, stopped screaming the moment she saw them. She rushed to their side, arms thrown around them as though she could shield them with her body. Lorraine dragged a chair to the door and sat, the quiet scrape of wood against stone punctuating the tension.
She was playing a dangerous game, trying to twist the dowager's schemes back on themselves. Whether it would work or not, she had no idea.
