[maikafanawen]

Dryea rose and dressed that morning with a drone aire about her. The people of the sixth and seventh circles would undoubtedly hear of the young nobleman's sudden and tragic death and would mourn alongside Dryea. "To think," they all would say, "They had only just been engaged."

The Lady Morthaniawen chose black. Her mother wouldn't have her looking so plain, but she refused to wear any color. Dryea argued that people would talk if she did but inside she knew she could not bring herself to don the merry hues of gold and the sultry shades of red like she'd used to. She even locked her jewelry box, enclosing the dear necklaces, and bangles within. The ring she kept on.

No one dared to speak to her or even look her direction the rest of the morning. She sat in the old room at the end of the West corridor all morning, gazing outside into the shadowed yard. Just watching. And wishing that somehow this was all a nightmare. A terrible, wicked, foul nightmare and any moment she'd awake to Rheaite drawing the drapes and admonishing her for sleeping in so.

It was not to be so and she stayed sitting like she was for a long time, wrapped in an old grey throw to keep out the chill that had settled permanently in her bones. She didn't have breakfast, and had ignored the tea Rheaite had set on the table nearby. Murder was an evil sport, she had decided, and if she had known its effect, she would have never made the poison.

Oh what madness had taken her mind that evening! What insanity had possessed her and caused her to destroy the flame of hope that she might have a life of her own away from the tediousness of all this plotting? She shook her head. What's done is done, and nothing shall be undone.

Dropping her throw, Dryea stood and left the room, making her way to her mother's study. She descended the stairs at a slow and deliberate pace making a hollow thumping noise every time her bare feet hit the stone steps. She reached the door and knocked.

"Come in," said Ruiel in her satirical voice. Dryea entered, an indifferent expression upon her face as her mind conformed to the tasks before her.

"What is there for us to do today Mother? What benefit might I be to the realm I serve?" She did a mock bow and grinned when her mother chuckled.

"Come to my arms daughter, for you are truly of Morthaniawen blood." They embraced. Their bond was renewed and Ruiel's daughter became her exact image of wickedness in mind—and soul.