The steam from the bath still clung to the corners of the room. Verona sat on the velvet-upholstered stool of her vanity. In her hands, a plush towel worked against the damp, heavy weight of her hair.
She stared into the mirror, but she wasn't really looking at the woman reflected in there. Instead, she was back in that dusty, cedar-scented shop under the hawthorn tree.
It had been a strange conversation, one that had drifted from hemlines to history as the afternoon wore on. Turns out, the poor man was a Northern soul who'd tried to chase the glittering lights of the Capital, thinking talent alone would be enough to buy a seat at the table.
He'd worked for Valeska before being tossed out like yesterday's scraps. When he mentioned that, both Verona and Isella had frozen, their brows arching in a perfect, synchronized movement of suspicion.
