The older woman's voice rang out with authority, cutting through the chants and the drums. "Step forward, the chosen ones!" she cried, and the crowd erupted in excited murmurs.
Two young women, dressed in their finest, moved with practiced grace into the center. Their hair glistened with beads and flowers, their jewelry jingling as they walked, every movement screaming pick me, pick me. And then—of course—Isabella's name was called. Isabella blinked once. Twice.
She even glanced over her shoulder as though there had to be another Isabella hiding somewhere in the crowd. Surely, surely these people didn't mean her. She bit into her fruit with deliberate slowness, eyes narrowing.
Do these people seriously think I want to partake in this rubbish? Me? Isabella Devereaux? Miss "I have better things to do"? Oh, please.
