His footsteps receded and Grace sank to the floor, all initiative gone now that she had his attention. He would be back, and she would make her plea. “Grace,” Falsteed chided in the dark. “No.” “The roses,” she said, sighing. “The smell of the roses, it undid me. How can I call it a life when I curl in the darkness, covered in my own filth? I was once surrounded by light and smelled as lovely as a garden. I’d rather forget both than remember either.”
