The scent of frost still clung to the hem of her cloak as Calienne tore it off, tossing it onto the chaise like it offended her. The fire crackled too loudly in the hearth, the polished mirror was too honest, and the silence was too filled with her. That girl. That's Aylin.
Plain. Soft-spoken. And yet marked.
Calienne gripped the edge of her dressing table and leaned forward, her crimson eyes burning in the glass. "She's not even pretty," she muttered. "Not striking. Not graceful. Just a nobody with a convenient story and a neck he couldn't resist."
Behind her, Maelle perched on the window seat, peeling off her gloves. "She's forgettable, my lady. Truly. Like a village ghost who wandered too far from home."
Selene, seated by the fire, offered a cool smile. "But sometimes, that's what makes them dangerous. No one expects the plain ones. That's why they survive."
Calienne's jaw clenched. "He chose her. In front of everyone."
