BEATRICE'S POV
The hallway is long and my heels are loud against the marble and I cannot feel my hands.
I do not realise how hard I have been clenching my fists until a voice behind me gasps.
"What the hell? Why is your hand bleeding?"
I stop. The corridor is flooded with morning light — stained glass windows throwing coloured shadows across the marble and glass, catching in the mirror that hangs between the second and third floor landings. In that mirror, a woman stares back at me.
I managed to get a scarf from one of the maids. It hides most of the marks from last night — the evidence of a woman who was claimed and wanted and held and then, twelve minutes ago, told she had never been met.
"Nothing," I say.
I start walking again. Rosie catches my wrist and turns me toward her. Her icy blue eyes move across my face, trying to place what has happened and failing.
"You are crying," she murmurs.
