Celine sat up slowly on the bed. She pulled her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. She felt entirely hollowed out. The beautiful pink room, with its floral wallpaper and soft rugs, felt like a highly decorated prison cell.
Lady Farrington walked to the vanity mirror.
She looked at her own reflection. She saw the deep lines of worry around her mouth and the fear shining in her eyes. She took a deep, shuddering breath. She raised her trembling hands to her head and smoothed her elaborate hairstyle, pinning a loose curl back into place. She adjusted the lace at her neckline. She composed her face, forcing the muscles to relax into a smooth, aristocratic mask of indifference.
When she turned back to her daughter, the frightened mother was gone. The stern mother had returned.
Celine was still sitting on the bed, holding her stinging cheek. She looked small, fragile, and utterly broken.
