The heavy, suffocating silence that had claimed the Verona's chamber for fourteen days didn't just break, it shattered under the weight of a dozen voices, all speaking at once. What had been a tomb of whispered prayers and stifled sobs only twenty-four hours ago now sounded more like a crowded tavern at midsummer, or perhaps a war room in the middle of a celebratory feast.
Verona sat propped up against a literal mountain of silk pillows, a cup of steaming herbal tea held firmly in her hands. She felt like a rare specimen under a microscope, or perhaps a long-lost relic that had suddenly started speaking. Standing at the foot of her bed were Calixto and Yelena, the couple currently engaged in a heated, low-voiced debate over whether her restorative broth should contain more iron-root or ginger.
