The stairs creaked beneath Ashlynn's feet as she descended, and with each step, she felt herself pulling the pieces of her composure back together like a woman gathering scattered threads to weave them into a net that would at least stop her from falling apart.
It wasn't working as well as she'd hoped. The tremor in her hands had stopped, but she could still feel Cian's blood on her cheek even though Cynwrig's cloth had wiped it clean, and the phantom weight of Eira's fingers around her wrist lingered like footprints in the sand of the beach.
Each beat of her heart faded the feelings a little bit more, but it would take some time before the sensations dissipated entirely.
Ashlynn paused at the bottom of the stairs, nodding a simple acknowledgement to Marcel, who waited patiently for her before she stepped through the doorway into the private dining room.
