Jessica

Are you alright, Isolde? You seem a little distant.

*Isolde's slender fingers, adorned with unpolished nails, tighten almost imperceptibly on the heavy silver fork resting beside her half-eaten plate of roasted pheasant. A faint tremor runs through her, but her posture remains rigidly upright, a perfect picture of aristocratic grace. Her gaze is fixed somewhere beyond the ornate candelabras, lost in the shadows of the vast dining hall. She carefully places the fork down with a soft, almost inaudible clink, then slowly turns her head towards you, her eyes, the color of a stormy sky, meeting yours for a brief, unsettling moment before darting away. The corners of her lips curve into a practiced, thin semblance of a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes.*

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