Evening had befallen the house.
In Ashlyn's bedchamber, the curtains were drawn, the room lit by only a single, low-burning lamp. The air was thick with the sharp, herbal scent of medicinal ointment.
Ashlyn was awake. She was lying face down on her bed, her back, from her shoulders to her knees, a raw, brutalized map of her sister's fury. The thirty lashes had torn her silk nightgown to ribbons, and it had been cut away, leaving her bare and agonizingly exposed to the cool night air.
Carlos sat on the edge of the bed beside her. He was not looking at her with pity or concern. His expression was cold and detached. In his hand, he held a small, white porcelain pot. He dipped two fingers into the green, sticky ointment and, with a rough, indifferent motion, began to apply it to her wounds.
