Was that amusement in his eyes?
She looked around to change the subject—tch, distractions, please—and her brow furrowed. There was a gap. A missing person.
"Wait. Where's Ophelia?" Isabella asked, frowning, scanning the immediate area as if the woman might be tucked behind the animal skins.
"She got up early to have her bath," Cyrus said calmly, like they were discussing cloud patterns.
"Oh that little—" Isabella's whole face twitched. "I hope the soap is safe."
She leapt to her feet, muttering under her breath like an anxious goblin, then turned back sharply to Cyrus.
"Stand outside for a moment, will you?" she asked.
He gave a single nod like some solemn jungle monk, got up without a word, and walked out as quietly as he'd arrived.
Once the door shut behind him, Isabella whipped around like a raccoon about to raid the fridge. She dropped to her knees by her bedroll and counted quickly—"One, two, three... thirteen!"—her voice went up an octave with glee.
