Isabelle descended the stairs at exactly the pace she had chosen, carrying a leather-bound book and a cup of tea that smelled expensive enough to have opinions about politics. Her wine-red hair fell in a severe ponytail that emphasized the aristocratic angles of her face. She settled into the other wingback chair, crossed her legs, and opened her book to a marked page without looking at anyone.
She was listening. She was always listening.
Skylar leaned against the kitchen doorframe. Hood up. Arms crossed. Violet eyes tracking every entrance and exit out of habit rather than necessity. She had positioned herself between the window and the hallway, covering two approaches. I noticed because I'd spent four months learning to read her body language, which was ninety percent "I don't care" and ten percent "I will stab you for even suggesting I care."
