Moving On
The trail led upstairs, toward the castle tower—her old bedroom. Just then, a figure emerged, descending the staircase unsteadily. An old man, appearing to be in his mid-sixties, with a head of white hair, stumbled down. His face was flushed red from drink, and he was clad in nothing but a bathrobe. He had only one arm; his left was missing.
It was Henry Pembroke.
The once-elegant and disciplined butler was a shadow of his former self.
"Lady Envy…" he muttered reflexively, his voice thick with disbelief. His eyes widened as he stared at her.
"I've come back to retrieve something I forgot," Envy said, her face devoid of emotion. There was no trace of hatred or anger—her expression was utterly indifferent. To her, the man who had once betrayed her, Henry, was nothing more than a roadside pebble, unworthy of any feeling or acknowledgment.