//CLARA//
We stood in the entry hall like two actors waiting for the curtain to fall. Servants drifted through the shadows, wiping surfaces and extinguishing candles with the quiet efficiency of people who were definitely eavesdropping.
Aunt Cornelia's fury radiated through the floorboards like a low-grade fever.
Casimir stood across from me, hands clasped behind his back, face carved from marble. But his eyes were not cold. They met mine, and something passed between us. Not words. Not even a smile. Just the quiet understanding of two people who had just committed social murder together.
Well played, his gaze said.
I know, mine replied.
He gave me a barest nod. Completely innocent.
I clasped my hands and dipped into a small curtsy. "Goodnight, Uncle."
His jaw tightened. "Goodnight, Eleanor. Sleep well."
Eleanor. Not Clara. Because we had an audience.
