She knelt.
The stone floor was cold through the thin silk of the gown. She folded her hands in her lap. She looked at the floor. She did not look at the bed.
Behind her, she heard Branimir cross the room. Heard the rustle of silk. Heard the low murmur of his voice as he spoke to Seraphyne — words Clara could not make out, did not want to make out, words that belonged to the private language of a marriage she had no part in and wanted no part in.
She heard Seraphyne respond. Quiet. Controlled. The voice of a woman performing a role she despised with the skill of someone who had been performing roles for centuries.
She heard the bed shift. Heard breathing change. Heard the particular, devastating silence that precedes intimacy — the silence of two bodies negotiating a closeness that is physical without being honest, that is contact without being connection.
