M-Mother..."
Lirienne stammered, her voice sightly above a whisper. Their mother's wide eyes darted between the two figures standing before her.
"Why are the both of y—"
She was abruptly cut off as Mirelle swiveled toward her, sharp and sudden, like a predator scenting prey. Her finger shot forward, pointing into the room beyond the half-open door.
"Who is that?"
Her voice was steady, but her eyes burned with something unnatural, something fevered and all-consuming.
It was the look of someone staring at a puzzle that shouldn't exist, something outside the natural order.
"Oh no, you don't."
Isolde's grip on her second daughter's wrist was ironclad, yanking her back with a force that was anything but refined.
The struggle that followed was graceless, entirely unbecoming of nobility. An entanglement of limbs and frayed patience colliding with reckless curiosity.
Good thing no servants were nearby.
