The walk back to Jareth's place was a funeral procession of one. Each step Isolde took on the polished marble echoed the final, hollow thud of a nail being hammered into a coffin. Her coffin. The coffin of her friendship with Selene, the coffin of her own fragile sense of morality. The cold stone of betrayal sat heavy in her gut, a constant, nauseating reminder of what she had done.
She had done it. She had issued the poisoned invitation, wrapped in the pretty paper of friendship and stories. And Selene, with her trusting heart and newfound joy, had accepted. The trap was sprung, and Isolde was the bait and the mechanism both.
