SAMANTHA
After I had been fully dressed, Joanne wrapped a thick jacket around my shoulders. She adjusted the collar and smoothed the sleeves and then she stepped back to admire her work.
"There," she said with a satisfied nod. "Now you are ready."
I did not feel ready. My heart was pounding so hard that I could hear it in my ears and my hands were cold and my legs felt like they were made of wet paper that would crumple beneath me at any moment.
Joanne took my arm and she led me out of the penthouse and down the corridor and past the guards and past the servants and past the paintings of wolves and moons and ancient battles that lined the walls like silent witnesses to my fear.
We stopped in front of a large wooden door that was carved with intricate designs of flowers and vines and birds in flight and the craftsmanship was so detailed that I could almost hear the birds singing.
Joanne knocked on the door.
