The first thing she knew was softness.
It was a strange, alien sensation. Not the damp, unyielding stone of a cell floor, nor the rough, thin straw of a prison pallet. This was the feel of high-count linen sheets, impossibly smooth against her skin, and the deep, yielding comfort of a feather mattress.
The second thing she knew was warmth. A gentle, even heat radiated from a fireplace somewhere nearby, the soft crackle of burning wood a soothing, forgotten sound. The air smelled of lavender, and old books, and a faint, clean scent of iron.
Isadora's eyes fluttered open.
The light was soft, filtered through heavy, dark green velvet curtains that were drawn against the day. She was in a vast, baronial bedchamber, a room of dark, polished wood, towering bookshelves, and walls hung with ancient tapestries.
This was not her world. This was Mirewood Hall.
"About time."
The voice, light and laced with a familiar, cheerful sarcasm, made her jump.
