...
Ida Chapman listened to the music with rapt attention, her graceful hands slowly pouring water from the porcelain vase with blue designs into the teapot. Her tender, fair hands cradling the pinkish translucent teapot, she gently placed it atop the red clay stove, her movements and expression satisfied and pleasurable, as if she were merely enjoying the tea culture and not the hideous faces before her.
She didn't speak, only silently sat there, her eyes half-closed. The long hair on her forehead covered the corners of her eyes, making it impossible to discern her expression. The calmer she appeared, the more suffocating Black Gold felt, as if he could only hear his own heart pounding like a drum, while fear surged over him like water!
Only then did Ida Chapman lift her head, her half-closed eyes narrowing into a slit, a flash of fierce intensity sweeping across.
