“You worry too much. You shouldn’t worry so much. What danger am I, hmm? Small as I am?” A soft smile now, and she reached out: in the scuffle a strand of hair had come loose from Isabel’s bun—fell over her brow, eye. Eva brushed it aside, tucked it behind Isabel’s ear. Her fingers were colder than the room, nails cut short. “Sweet Isabel. What could I do to you?” Isabel jerked away. The words felt as if they had been shouted across rather than hushed in the small stretch between them. She knows, Isabel thought, wildly, and then—what? Knows what? She had no answer.
