Irene's POV
For just a second—maybe less than a second, so brief I might have imagined it—something flashes across her face. Surprise? Guilt? Fear?
Then it's gone, replaced by her usual calm expression. But I didn't imagine it. I know I didn't.
"Irene," she says, and there's a question in her voice, an edge of something I can't quite identify. "What are you doing here? Is something wrong? Is Yin—"
"Yin's fine," I interrupt, studying her carefully. She's fully dressed, not in nightclothes but in dark pants and a fitted shirt, as if she's been out. Doing what, I can't imagine. Her hair is pulled back tight, and there's something in her pocket that creates a bulge—something rectangular.
My paranoia kicks into overdrive. "Where did you go?"
She blinks, her face carefully neutral. "What?"
"It's the middle of the night, Juniper. Your room is empty—not just empty, but unused. You're fully dressed like you've been somewhere. Where did you go?"
