"Well… well… well…" came the voice, dragging itself into the room like a slow-rolling storm. "If it isn't the great Silvermist, finally back from the dead."
Silvermist didn't have to look. She already knew who it was.
But she looked anyway—because the dramatic entrance deserved at least a glance.
Gail stood there near the opened door, arms crossed and eyebrow raised. She strolled into the room like she owned the building, her heeled boots clicking across the marble floor.
Without waiting for an invitation—because of course not—she flounced down onto the velvet Victorian couch near Silvermist's bed, crossing one leg over the other.
"So," Gail began, her voice as smooth and sweet as poison, "how's the talk-of-the-town doing?"
Silvermist didn't answer. She was still busy folding Estes' cloak with painstaking care, as if it were a fragile heirloom and not a slightly bloodstained piece of cloth that smelled faintly of fire and shame.
