A sound scratched at the silence of the room—a wet, muffled friction of vocal cords straining against cloth. "Mmm... mmm... please... someone..."
Olivia's brow furrowed. The voice was a pathetic thing: frail, trembling, and saturated with the stench of raw terror. It was the sound of someone who knew they were already halfway into their own grave.
"What is that?" Olivia asked, her voice dropping to a dangerous low.
Isabella's lips curled into a predatory smirk, a look that sat unnervingly well on her features. "Didn't I tell you? I found the little rat. To save us the walk, I decided to bring the party to you."
Olivia followed the sound toward the bathing chamber, and the air shifted, growing heavy with the smell of salt and cold sweat. There, anchored in the center of the tiled floor, was one of the housemaids. She was bound to a wooden chair with a brutal efficiency—thick cords bit deep into her wrists, turning the skin a mottled purple.
