Serenith slowly floats up the stairwell one reluctant inch at a time, telling herself, with the full conviction of a woman defending a very shaky legal argument, that what she's doing is strictly professional.
Surveillance.
Due diligence.
Absolutely nothing else.
And she will die on this hill, halo first.
The stairs echo with giggling, with soft, breathless moans, and she bites her lip hard enough to leave a mark before she even reaches the landing.
The corridor stretches out ahead of her, doors lining both walls, velvet-dark and dripping with candlelight, the air thick with perfume and something muskier underneath it that she refuses to identify.
At the far end, a small crowd of women has already gathered around one door in particular, murmuring, craning for a look, shifting on their feet like children queued for a fair ride.
