May 17
A drop of blood fell onto the embroidery. Helena had pricked her finger in her anger, clenching the needle too tightly.
She immediately looked at Florentina guiltily.
“I’m sorry.”
Florentina stared stupidly, meaninglessly, at the blood, eyes wide. A moment later she scrambled onto the bed and lunged toward Helena. Her face stopped mere inches from her friend’s throat, but Helena did not recoil in the slightest.
“Careful,” Helena said without pulling away. “Or I may misunderstand your intentions.”