Clara was not broken.
She spat the blood on the carpet. Looked at Olvienne. The vampire was still standing by the door, watching the scene with the calm, unhurried attention of a woman observing a natural phenomenon — a storm, an earthquake, the particular moment when a creature that has been pushed too far decides to push back.
"My name," Clara said, and her mouth was full of someone else's blood and her hair was in someone else's fist and her feet were bare on someone else's carpet and she was alone and she was afraid and she was not going to stop, "is Clara Wren."
Olvienne regarded her for a long, measured moment. The amber eyes were warm. Patient. The warmth and patience of a woman who had centuries to wait and was not in any hurry.
"The Pit," she said to the handlers. "Three days. No food. No light. No company except the others. When she is ready to be Petal, she will tell us."
She paused at the door. Looked back.
