Bewitched
If I can reach it, if I can disguise myself once more, perhaps Tremaine’s suspicion will falter.
Inside, I change quickly, pulling on the plain garb of a servant, shoving the torn gown deep into hiding. Flynn slips through after me, dropping onto my floor with the same careless grin, but before I can hush him, there comes a knock—sharp, insistent, too soon. My stomach knots.
“Hide,” I whisper, dragging him toward the bed, forcing him beneath it before the door rattles again.
When I open it, she stands there. Lady Tremaine. Her presence is enough to drain the air from the room. Her eyes sweep past me, calculating, searching.
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