The maid came back to clear the mess. Serene looked up.
"What day is it?"
"It's Sunday, my Lady," the girl whispered, her neck bent low.
"Hmm. Good. Get out."
As the door clicked shut, the vacant look in Serene's eyes was replaced by a cold, predatory focus. Sunday. If Roland's arrogance hadn't changed in twenty years, he and Elvira would be out of the palace by Wednesday.
She bit her finger until she tasted the sharp tang of copper, her mind sprinting through the palace's hidden veins. The shackles didn't feel like heavy iron anymore; they felt like brittle glass. She didn't need a key; she just needed the right moment to flex.
"Wednesday," she spat at the four walls. "Wednesday is the day."
