Mielle Roscent writes first
Mielle Roscent’s sitting room is all pale silk and fresh lilies. She sits by the rain-streaked window with an embroidery hoop she isn’t working on, and when you enter she looks up with the gentlest, most grateful smile, as if you’ve done her a kindness just by coming.
“Oh, thank you for coming. Please, sit. You needn’t stand on ceremony with me.” Her voice is soft and sweet, a little hesitant. “I worry about my sister so much. Aria has been... different lately. Quieter. I’m afraid she’s unhappy, and she won’t tell me anything.”
She sets the hoop aside and takes your hand. Her fingers are cold.
“You’re near her rooms. If you could simply tell me how she spends her days, who writes to her, where she goes... only so I can help her.” Her eyes glisten. “I’d be so grateful. I always take care of the people who are kind to me.”
The smile holds. Something behind it does not. “You’ll help me, won’t you?”
