//CLARA//
Aunt Cornelia acted as if last night hadn't happened.
Of course she did. That's what people like her did—swallow the poison, smile, and pretend the room wasn't still bleeding.
She swept into my room at dawn with a flock of maids trailing behind her like vultures who'd heard something was dying. The sun hadn't even bothered to show up yet, but there she was, armored in pleated black silk, her face painted with rice powder and the kind of poise that cost more than my entire wardrobe.
Hattie stood in the corner, clutching a gown the color of a frozen lake. Appropriate. I felt frozen too.
"You will wear this," Cornelia announced, circling me like I was a horse she was thinking of buying. "It covers a multitude of… indiscretions."
Her eyes raked over my frame, lingering on my swollen lip. She thought that was her handiwork. Her slap. Her righteous fury.
It wasn't.
But I wasn't about to correct her. Let her take credit. Let her believe she'd left a mark.
