//CLARA//
If life in the 1870s was a movie, I was currently stuck in a period drama directed by someone who hated me.
I sat in the morning room, sunlight glaring off my tea set. Across from me, Aunt Cornelia perched on a settee like a gargoyle in black bombazine, her spine rigid, her attention fixed on her embroidery.
"You're quiet this morning, Eleanor." Her voice sliced through my thoughts like a scalpel. "Something on your mind?"
I considered, for half a second, telling her exactly what was on my mind. That her nephew's fingers had been inside me yesterday. That I'd screamed his name against a bookshelf.
Instead, I smoothed my voice into something sweet and venomous.
"You confuse me, Aunt Cornelia." I tilted my head, all innocence. "If I speak, I'm too loud. If I remain silent, you question me. I find myself in a puzzle where every move is the wrong one, and yet you're the one holding the rulebook. Curious, isn't it?"
