Someone knocked on the door.
Isolde shot upright, her entire body tensing. Her eyes darted to the covered bodies on the floor. She had given strict orders not to be disturbed. No one was allowed even near her chambers. Who dared defy her?
The worst problem was the stench. Even with incense burning, the metallic tang of blood and the foul smell of pus lingered in the room, thick and heavy. If anyone stepped inside, it would be impossible to hide. And they would question or if it was a maid the would make up theories and the servants would know.
Isolde glared at Irene, who was still struggling to wrap the small bodies. "Hurry up, fool," she hissed. Her voice was sharp, almost trembling with fury.
She tiptoed toward the door, lowering her voice as she asked, "Who is it?"
From the other side came a familiar reply. "It's Fiona, my lady."
