That morning, in the small, rarely used study, Claire stared at the teacup in front of her with an uneasy feeling, staring at the steam blowing from the cup, trying to sway her thought from the myriad of feelings inside of her heart.
The teacup looked elegant, with a beautiful floral pattern, but the aroma was too strong, too bitter. The maid who brought her the tea stood in the corner, smiling politely, but Claire felt something was off, she knew something was wrong.
She silently stared at the tea, not rushing to touch it.
When she was 12 years old, she had already begun to realize that not everyone in this house liked her.
The cold stares, the subtle sneers, and the subtle difference in the way those servants serviced her that felt alien from what her brother Vincent had received. Claire felt a distance between herself and everyone else in this house—everyone, that is, except Vincent.
