"Delia?" Isla called out her name, her voice trembling, her own composure finally shattering.
But Delia didn't answer her directly. She was lost in the momentum of her own discovery, the pieces of the puzzle all clicking into place with a terrible, damning clarity. "When I think about it now," she continued, her own voice a low, intense murmur, "it was strange from the very start. Why would someone like you, a powerful and respected lady, want to help a disgraced girl like me?"
She thought back to the scar on Isla's arm, the one she had seen in the kitchen. "A scar from a carriage accident," she said, her eyes now fixed on Isla's long, elegant gloves. "It's the same accident that they said killed my mother. But why were you so connected to that scar? Why did it seem to hold so much pain for you?"
Isla was silent, her face a pale mask of shock.
