Lydia's Point Of View
The finality in Aunt Rita's voice didn't just send a chill down my spine; it felt as though she had reached through the speaker and dumped a bucket of ice water directly onto the plush carpet of the sitting room.
I stood there, frozen, my mouth hanging open just enough to be unladylike, but I couldn't summon the muscles to close it. Complete speechlessness had claimed me.
Me… Lydia Moore, the girl who always had a witty comeback ready, I was as silent as the grave. My carefully cultivated composure had shattered like fine china dropped on marble.
Grandmother Matilda's face drained from mottled purple to a ghastly, translucent white. Her hand, clutching the silver eagle-head of her cane, shook with such violence I feared the wood might snap. The trembling spread up her arm, making the diamonds on her bracelet catch the light in frantic flashes, like distress signals.
