Chapter 103 What Wasn't Well?

• Rosie didn’t so much sit as hover at the very edge of the chair, like a cat unsure of whether to leap or bolt. The table in front of her gleamed, absurdly pristine—flat and wide like a frozen lake, offering no warmth or comfort. Her reflection blinked back at her in faint outlines: tense jaw, haunted eyes, a mess of thoughts too tangled to untie.
• Everything inside her spun. Not fast like a whirlwind—that would’ve implied direction—but wild and directionless, like someone had upended her mind and let all the pieces scatter wherever they pleased.
• Alistair’s words echoed again. “He’s not doing well.”