//CLARA//
I stood frozen in the archway, my heels cemented to the marble floor. Three sets of eyes burned into me. Aunt Cornelia's cold fury. Bartholomew's smug satisfaction.
And Casimir's… his was the worst. He wasn't angry. He wasn't jealous or hurt. He was just… watching. Waiting for the first crack in my armor.
I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. My throat was a desert, cactuses poking holes in my tonsils. How do you explain to a nineteenth-century possessive powerhouse that you were actually out getting a history lesson from your time-traveling cousin?
"How curious," Aunt Cornelia said, her tone dripping with artificial sympathy. "For a woman who seems to have something to say in every situation, you appear remarkably out of words. Perhaps your memory needs a little… encouragement."
I tried to speak. Nothing.
She didn't even look at me. She just raised a gloved hand toward the shadows of the hall.
