The sun began to set, painting the sky in the same colors of orange, purple, and ash that had just consumed Senna's residence.
Outside the massive, iron gates of the Thompson estate, a small, curious crowd had gathered. They were the "people" Senna had sent—gossip-mongers, paid whisperers, and a few genuinely curious passersby, all drawn by the "show."
In the center of the dusty road, kneeling on the hard, unforgiving ground, was Senna.
Her expensive, emerald-green gown was torn, blackened with soot, and stained. Her beautiful hair, usually so perfect, was a wild, tangled mess, her face streaked with black soot and the very real, very convincing tracks of her tears. She was shivering, a poor, broken, pitiful thing, her hands clasped in front of her as if in prayer. Esme knelt beside her, weeping loudly into a dirty handkerchief.
The onlookers gossiped, their voices loud and full of a delicious, dramatic pity.
"By the gods, is that her? The dancer?"
