Franz's room was quiet.
Arianne had never spent much time in it. The bed had a dark cover, pulled smooth. A book on the nightstand — something with a cracked spine, read more than once. The window looked out over the east lawn, the trees black against the darker sky. It was neat without being cold. Lived in without being messy.
Lily clung to her neck. Her face was still blotchy, her eyelids swollen. She hadn't stopped trembling. The lion's torn arm was no longer in her hand — she'd dropped it somewhere, on the floor of the twins' room, or maybe Franz had picked it up. Arianne couldn't remember. The last ten minutes had blurred.
She settled Lily on the bed. The cover was cool under her hand. Lily's fingers stayed hooked into her sleeve.
"Aunt Aria."
"I'm here."
"Does Leo hate me now?"
The question was small. Barely a whisper.
"No," Arianne said. "He doesn't hate you."
"He pushed me." Lily's voice cracked. "He's never pushed me before. Never. We fight but he never — "
