Cassandra, seated behind the bars of a dungeon and mired in the filth of decidedly less civilized prisoners, raises her head and straightens her already perfect posture and casts upon them a look of absolute superiority.
(All she can feel is the violent weightlessness of her own relief.)
Only Cassandra and Annabella see it for what it is: punishment at its cruelest. Her brother was stripped of his work; Cass was given a position that would require the perpetual company of her least favorite person in the world. She has no choice but to stay quiet and obey—which, despite her occupation, have never been her most exceptional talents.
When they pull back, they’re more breathless and more sure and more unsure than ever.
“You’re such an idiot,” Annabella says, stepping out from the shadows the torches have cast, so she’s standing just in front of the bars. “What the hell is your problem?”