"Put those down," Annalise snaps as a velvet stool sails through the air.
The stool hits the wall and shatters. A girl screams. Another clutches a handful of brooches and freezes with eyes wide.
"Who—" Katrina Russo starts, voice sharp, ready to scold.
"Silence," Annalise says. Her voice is flat, precise, like a commander calling a company to halt. The room listens.
"Joy?" a hand tries the name, half hope, half accusation.
"Not Joy," Annalise says. "Not your plaything either."
A girl drops the brooches. They clatter loud on the floor.
"How dare you—" Katrina strides forward, skirts sweeping, then stops because Annalise is already standing. The merchant girl's bedclothes hang wrong, the room smells of rose oil and wax. Annalise notices nothing but the angle of a door and the hard edge of a hearth. Her hands know the weight of weapons rather than ribbons, and the muscle in her forearm wants to move like it did on cold earth under banners.
"Who taught you to take from the dead?" Annalise asks.
"What?" Katrina blinks. "Dead? Joy is—"
"Silence," Annalise repeats. She picks up a porcelain teacup, turns it in her palm, and smashes it onto the nightstand. Porcelain explodes across lacquer and silk.
Gasps. The second daughter, pale and prim, knocks over a tray. Her composure cracks. "You—"
"Out," Annalise says. "All of you. Leave every trinket, every note. Now."
"No," Katrina says, nostrils flaring. "You will not—"
"Now," Annalise says again. This time there is a
