After Marcella was done with her gown measurement, she went to her father's study room.
The study smelled of old parchment and candle wax. Bookshelves towered along the walls, filled with religious texts, decrees. Marcella stepped through the doorway without knocking. She just stood stiffly inside the threshold, her arms crossed.
High Priest Alistair sat at his desk—his hands still busy with scrollwork as if the world hadn't just been rearranged around his daughter. "Is the dress to your liking?" he asked.
"Yes, Father." Marcella nodded her head, dismissing the small talk. The dress was the least of her concerns.
"So, what made my dear daughter come to my study room?" Still, he didn't look up, the scraping of his quill the only sound.
"I need the truth."
His quill froze mid-stroke, a drop of ink splattering onto the scroll.
