The storm outside had subsided by night, and the house was very still, strangely so after weeks of bellowed orders and marching feet. There was still rain on the plants, falling from the metal fences and making the air smell of earth and roses. The world outside the grounds was distant, closed off by the tall walls and the heavy curtains pulled across the windows.
Isla was sitting by the fireplace, her skin tanned and shadowed in the glow of the fire. She had her knees drawn up to her chest and was gazing into the fire as it climbed and dipped in the same steady rhythm, reminding her of everything inside her that she had no control over. Across the room, Dante paced softly, as if even he was quieted by the stillness. He poured some of the black wine for himself, but he did not seem as keen as he normally was. His actions were slow, something she had rarely seen in him.
