Ophelia was beside herself with happiness.
It was a carefully contained happiness, of course, pressed flat beneath layers of black silk, veiled beneath practiced grief, buried so deep that not even the most observant mourner could accuse her of any impropriety. But it pulsed beneath her skin all the same, electric and intoxicating, filling her chest until it felt difficult to breathe.
Everything she had ever wanted was finally within reach.
If the world were kinder, if irony were not so cruel she might have thrown a party. A real one. Music, champagne, laughter echoing through the halls of Welhaven House. She imagined, just for a moment, a massive banner unfurled across the iron gates:
THE WITCH IS DEAD.
The thought made her lips twitch as a grin slipped past.
But reality insisted on restraint.
