The Dowager sat alone in the garden, the afternoon sun painting long shadows across the stone paths. The tea in front of her had gone cold, forgotten, its fragrance drifting faintly into the warm air. Her eyes were fixed somewhere between the flowerbeds and the horizon, blank, distant, as if she were lost in thought. But she was thinking of nothing at all.
"You've chosen your wickedness again, Isabella."
The voice, heavy with grief and reproach, pierced her reverie like a shard of glass.
The Dowager looked up, startled. Standing by the edge of the garden, partially obscured by the sunlight filtering through the bushes, was her uncle, Osric Vaelith. She could not read the lines of his face in the brightness, but the weight of his disapproval pressed down on her like a physical thing.
"Uncle!" Her voice trembled. "You're wrong."
