The mid-morning sun streamed through the tall windows of the East Wing guest chambers. The room was luxurious, filled with expensive furniture and fresh flowers, but to the woman staying there, it felt like a cage.
Senna sat by the small, round table near the window. She was dressed in a simple, pale gown, her face free of makeup, maintaining the image of a recovering, fragile victim. But her posture was rigid, her fingers drumming a silent, impatient rhythm on the arm of her chair.
There was a knock at the door. Before Senna could even compose her face, the door opened.
It was Ashlyn.
