Something was wrong. Something was utterly and dreadfully wrong. Zayden felt it deep within his bones.
Since his return earlier that day, on this dreary Monday, Angela had not spared him more than a few curt sentences. The air between them was thick with unspoken words. He had inquired if anything troubled her or if he had unwittingly offended her, but she merely shook her head, her silence gnawing at him like a ravenous beast. Her refusal to engage left him feeling particularly wretched.
As night descended upon the land, Angela resolved to retire for the evening. Zayden followed her up to her chamber, trailing silently behind her like a shadow. Henry had mentioned her recent illness during his absence, and though he had asked about it, she insisted she was well. Yet she had confined herself to her room for much of the day, emerging only in the evening to continue her art in the drawing room. Her silence was palpable, and she made no effort to converse with him.
