Lorelei

The roses sat on my bedside table like an accusation.

I had been staring at them for hours. Crimson petals, dark velvet, tied with a black ribbon that Stephen had probably selected himself. They were beautiful. They were terrifying. They were a question I didn't know how to answer.

Penelope had left after lunch, her eyes bright with curiosity that she was too polite to voice. Calista had not returned. The afternoon had bled into evening, the shadows lengthening across my floor, and I ...