CHAPTER 59
Isabella didn't remember the fire going out. She didn't remember the moment her heavy eyelids finally won the battle against the flickering shadows.
Sleep hadn't been a rest; it had been a murky, suffocating descent into dreams of dark water and the sound of someone screaming her name from a great distance.
A sharp groan of pure frustration dragged her back to the surface. Isabella's eyes fluttered open, unfocused and stinging.
The room was bathed in the grey, weak light of pre-dawn, the air chilled to a point that made her breath mist in front of her face.
She didn't move, her body feeling like it had been weighed down with lead, but her gaze drifted toward the floor.
Clara was still there.
The witch was no longer sitting with the poised grace of the night before. She was on her knees, surrounded by a chaotic sea of books.
The leather-bound books were splayed open in every direction, some face-down with their spines protesting, others stacked in precarious towers.
