It should have been easy, getting out of any kind of situation, as long as you knew how to do it.
That was the theory, at least. The clean, simple theory that people without power liked to tell themselves, the comforting lie that knowledge was enough, that cleverness could overcome anything, that the right words at the right time could open any door.
But knowing how to get out of any situation was sometimes a talent in itself. A gift. A particular way of seeing the world that could not be taught, could not be learned, could not be borrowed or stolen or bought.
Angela May Iondora had that talent.
She had been born with it, or maybe she had developed it, or maybe it was just the natural result of growing up in a family where every word was a weapon and every silence a trap.
She could read a room in seconds, could find the weak points in any argument, could turn an enemy into an ally and an ally into a tool without ever seeming to try.
