Dante watched her still as a hunter watches its prey. He looked closely for each little way in which her body betrayed she was lying, each pause that went on too long, each strained smile. He observed the manner in which she darted her gaze where she believed he was not watching, the immobility of her hands in her lap, and the way the silence continued and spoke its truths that she no longer voiced aloud. The house itself seemed agitated, as if it were quietly warning them through its groaning wood and shifting air. Tonight, it was telling him something was amiss.
Isla walked into the breakfast room like nothing had ever shifted in her heart. She moved as if with ease and seemed tranquil, as if she never had a different experience. She crossed her hands together, took the cup he filled for her, and drank without letup. She seemed a woman not touched by hardship or grief. Everything she did had been practiced in secret and became a performance that disclosed nothing.
