Scarlett’s emotions came in colors more vivid than usual. The urgent red of burning coals. The impatient green of fresh grass. The wild yellow of a bird’s wings.
He had finally replied to her. She read the letter again. Then again. And again. Her eyes drank in every line of the pen, every wax curve of the silver emblem of the lord of Caraval—a sun with a star inside it and a tear inside the star. The same seal appeared as a watermark on the sheets enclosed in the envelope. It wasn’t a prank.
“Donatella!” Scarlett ran down the stairs to the barrel room, searching for her little sister. The familiar smells of molasses and oak crept into her nose, but her cunning sister was nowhere to be seen. “Tella, where are you?” Oil lamps cast an orange glow over bottles of rum and several freshly filled wooden barrels. Scarlett heard a groan as she passed by, along with heavy breathing.
After her last fight with their father, it was most likely that Tella had drunk too much, and now had fallen asleep somewhere on the floor. “Dona—”
