"You want to go home, don't you, sweetheart?"
She stilled, her breath catching.
“Home to Covington House?” He asked and his words made her feel ill, her stomach twisting into a knot with each disgusting little letter, coiling tighter as he loosened his fingers and pushed a strand of hair away from her face. It was almost tender, and that made her shiver- the cold finally coming for her, coming in her stillness, coming to freeze her, to kill her. “Home to Fairfield? To your father? He keeps his study in the west wing, doesn’t he? Overlooking the back walk? And your mother, well, she doesn’t do much, but she visits the glasshouse every morning. Keeps roses there, I’ve heard, white roses. Those must be her favorite. I would hate if she were to go all that way and find red ones instead.”