A beat.
“Tell me…”
His voice dropped further. Almost gentle.
“What will you do…”
Another inch closer.
“…when I close my fist?”
Aoife’s throat tightened. She had to choose her words carefully, remembering that it wasn’t him she was talking to. She kept her head high. Inside, the fear curdled and hardened. She couldn’t afford to mess this up.
Before she could decide what to say, a familiar voice broke the silence.
“You will close it on nothing but air.”
Lord Halverton’s head snapped round, startled. Clara stepped forward from the line of servants.
Her hands were clenched in her skirts; the tension visible all the way up her arms. Her chin was high, her gaze fixed, unflinching.
“You’ll find it hard to do anything,” she said.
Her voice shook.
She didn’t stop.
“…without staff to follow your orders.”
She took a step, then another.
Her shoes were impossibly loud against the marble.
She came to stand at Aoife’s side, trembling but resolved.
“Clara,” Halverton said. As though the word itself stopped making sense.
“What do you think you are doing?”
She met his gaze.
“My name,” she said, “is Clíona.”
Halverton spun around as more footsteps fell behind him.
Alton stepped forward without hesitation, crossing the space to stand beside Clíona.
Halverton’s head snapped toward him.
“Alton,” he said. “That is enough. Get back in line.”
A small, dismissive gesture of his hand.
“You have made your point.”
Alton didn’t move.
Halverton frowned, a flicker of irritation crossing his face.
