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The château rose from the mist like a bone through soil. Inside, tapestries depicted Roman debauchery; chandeliers dripped wax onto marble floors that had never known a servant's tired feet. The Marquis—for he demanded that title—offered her a silk gown and a room with a fire. "Service," he said, "not servitude. You shall read to me in the evenings."
"For now. She has learned what you refuse: virtue is a ghost. Cruelty is the sun."
Juliette laughed. "No, dear. Hell is believing you deserve to suffer."
The knife lay on the table between them. Justine looked at it. Then at her sister. Then at the mirrors reflecting her own face—young, bruised, but somehow still soft.
The château rose from the mist like a bone through soil. Inside, tapestries depicted Roman debauchery; chandeliers dripped wax onto marble floors that had never known a servant's tired feet. The Marquis—for he demanded that title—offered her a silk gown and a room with a fire. "Service," he said, "not servitude. You shall read to me in the evenings."
"For now. She has learned what you refuse: virtue is a ghost. Cruelty is the sun."
Juliette laughed. "No, dear. Hell is believing you deserve to suffer."
The knife lay on the table between them. Justine looked at it. Then at her sister. Then at the mirrors reflecting her own face—young, bruised, but somehow still soft.
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