Clara stood by the golden gate of Amara's mansion, her gown faintly brushing the cobblestone path. The afternoon air was soft and fading, painted with the warmth of a sun about to fall. "Don't forget, Amara," she said cheerfully, her voice echoing faintly through the garden. "Tomorrow night is the ball. You'd better look breathtaking, or I'll make sure all eyes find me instead!"
Amara smiled faintly, half-listening as Clara climbed into her family's carriage. "You'll shine as always, Clara," she replied, her voice gentle, though her thoughts were far away.
As the carriage rolled off down the misty road, Amara stood there for a moment, her eyes fixed on nothing in particular. The bronze-skinned man's face flickered in her memory again his haunting calm, those deep green eyes that seemed to look through her. Clara spoke to him… didn't she? She saw him clearly, greeted him even. But then, just a while later, Clara claimed there was no one else there.
