The late afternoon sun slanted through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Rose Gallery. The air, which had been thick with the cloying, desperate scent of Marien's floral perfume only an hour prior, had finally been purged. Now, the room smelled of crisp Northern pine, dried lavender, and the deep, earthy aroma of freshly brewed Earl Grey.
Marien had not left with dignity. Her departure had been a spectacle of muffled sobs and venomous glares, her face twisted in a mask of rage that stripped away every ounce of her beauty. As she was ushered out, she had turned back toward Verona, her eyes brimming with tears of pure, unadulterated hatred. To Marien, this humiliation wasn't a result of her own arrogance or her family's failure. It was a debt she placed solely on Verona's shoulders. In her mind, Verona was the architect of her misery, the "freak" sister who had somehow stolen the spotlight and the protection of the North.
