"A Dress?" Isolde sighed heavily as she flipped through the pages of the heavy tome before her, her fingers leaving smudges on the parchment.
The winter solstice was fast approaching, and with it came a deluge of preparations that seemed to consume every waking moment. Her head ached from reading the same passage three times without absorbing a single word. The inked letters swam before her eyes, and she rubbed at them with the heel of her hand.
Mrs. Finch was tidying her desk, "Please stop reading that, we have much to prepare for and you look absolutely haggard."
"Haggard?" Isolde repeated, looking up sharply. She knew she looked tired—her reflection in the looking glass had told her as much this morning—but the bluntness of it still stung. "I'm trying to understand what the hell I'm supposed to do in this ritual." She slammed the book shut with more force than necessary.
