Isabel remembers more than she lets on.

        She remembers silver rivers and moon-soft nights drenched with stars.

        Sometimes she dreams about the way the coverlet feels beneath her cheek. Like imagination- like something about to drift away and be lost once more in the bowels of her fickle memory.

        Once she dreamt about the way she punished a servant- the lilt of her voice as it cracked like a whip- the slope of their back as they cowered before her. In her dream, her brother came in the room, his bride on his arm. Avary, her blonde curls clouding the air around her as if she was an angel with a halo, smiled sweetly and nodded. "Good day, Vilandra."

        Isabel can picture that clearly- the way she felt when her brother and his little wife came in the room- and said hello to her. She was angry. She cannot recognize why- it wasn't something that could be pinned down- some slight that had been done to her- but she was furious. Sometimes she thinks about telling Max and Michael about those dreams. They mean nothing- she is sure- are just tiny details of their everyday lives.

        But she can't tell them because of the nights she wakes up sweating.

        Her thighs stick to the sheets and her hair to her neck and she wonders what is the matter with her- to be remembering these things that shouldn't be. But they are. They come to her and scream in her ear- sugary screams and creamy whispers and they make her open and sore and her hands tremble as she pours her morning coffee each day.

        She dreams of the bed. It is red- the colour of roses - the colour of her lips that look as if they have been cut by thorns. She dreams of her body, lying sprawled with feminine delicacy- waiting- she recognises that she is waiting for something- but she does not remember what until the last second. The door opens and it doesn't creak because she had the hinges oiled- it slides across the tiled entry and the girl steps in, her white robes identifying her as a servant.

        "Hello," she says to the girl, whose dark hair shines in the starry room, and stretches out her hand. Their fingers interlock immediately and a rush down to her dizzy belly makes her eyes water.

        "Vilandra," the girl intones quietly, and kneels down, bending her head in supplication. When she rises, her breasts catch against the side of the bed and the nipples peak in angry relief. Isabel remembers how she feels when she sees those pink points- pale through the wispy fabric. She feels headily impatient and jerks on the fingers intertwined with hers- drawing the girl down and claiming the shiny mouth as her own.

        Isabel dreams about the ownership. When her arms wind about the slight body of the servant, there is a possession. When their tongues drown in each other's mouths, when she lightly brushes her stomach- there is that sweet mark of the chase- of the capturing. She knows it- and so does the girl. Her dark as pitch eyes gaze unblinkingly as Isabel- Vilandra- paints patterns on the skin of her collarbone with her lips.

        When she drags her tongue down the dripping wet opening, the lush cleft which begs her for fulfilment and craves her touch, she can feel the burn of her claim branding this girl as her own. Her flesh will crave no other, and that is the way Vilandra wants it. The way she needs it.

        Isabel remembers when she wakes up that Vilandra is not happy. Except when she is with the girl, her head bent to rub against the flesh of her inner elbow- the curve of her lower back. Vilandra is trapped in a betrothal with one she does not love and remains locked between her duty and the night.

        Sometimes when Isabel wakes up, the name is still on her lips. Of the serving girl whose breasts were sweet in her dreams and she whispers it, "Lizarena", and then thinks of Max's soulmate. She wonders if it is just a coincidence or if she is a bad person- someone who is destined to betray.

        She wonders if all the times she has looked up at the insistence of Liz Parker's gaze- if her pie-plate eyes were trying to scream something- if the dreams were attempting to whisper in her ear-

        And if she is the only one who remembers the starry room and silky coverlet- red like a bloodstained rose.