I leaned against the wall with Azure beside me and looked down the stairway.
Monica was leading. Not hurrying, not once — every step placed as though the stairs belonged to her and had been built at her request. The long white of her composure held even in the thinner light of the stairwell, the fabric of her dress moving only with the measured rise of each riser.
A long gap behind her and then Sophia, moving at whatever pace her body would still give her, one hand skimming the rail without committing to it, the sun still up somewhere beyond these walls and her strength measured against it with every riser. Melissa behind Sophia, held to that same pace and clearly hating it — the set of her shoulders tight, the way she took each step as if she could have taken three and was being forced to wait.
