Across the street, Mira fumed as she walked briskly past a display rack of bolts of clothes and a few golden-threaded, ready-made gowns. She barely registered the shopkeeper's greetings, her eyes sharp and unfocused.
Amelia trailed behind her, more uncertain than ever. The warmth she'd felt from Lara's invitation had evaporated, replaced by confusion and something more painful: rejection.
"I don't understand what happened," Amelia murmured as they entered a corner of the shop filled with evening cloaks and embroidered bodices.
Mira whirled on her. "She's not the same, Amelia. You saw it. She looked at you like you were nothing. As if none of it mattered."
"But I thought she was trying…she asked me for a sleepover," Amelia's voice faltered. "Maybe she really doesn't remember."
"She remembered enough to push people away," Mira said flatly. "She's playing the victim. That's all she knows how to do." Mira was trying to paint a picture of Lara in a bad light.
