✔ Mrs Mandray

52. Mrs Cromwell

Isabella

Mrs Cromwell was gracious enough to let her sit in the living room till someone came to get her. Or at least Isabella assumed someone was coming to get her considering she sent her son to her mate.

Mate.

What an odd thing to think about.

Exhilarating as well. Though was being heavily overshadowed by her irritation at Cassian not telling her. Part of her wanted to argue that he had tried to tell but quite frankly she needed something to be upset about right now and it seemed like a good enough option.

Shuffling slightly, Isabell readjusted the blanket wrapped around her shoulders as she nestled into the ratty old armchair she was sitting in. Mrs Cromwell had tried to light a fire but–

She could still hear his screams. Still hear his son's and grandson's cries of anguish as they watched him burn.

Isabella hadn't intended for any of that to happen. Not that she regrets what she did but– well she never thought she would look in the mirror and see a murderer. Or an accomplice to murder not that it makes any difference.

George was still sitting outside. He had followed her quietly back here, making sure she didn't do anything stupid. He had stayed far enough back that he was hardly noticeable, to the point that Isabella wondered why he had even joined her.

Until she crossed the bridge and found herself staring at the water for a second too long.

She wasn't going to jump. No, she had just gotten her life back or was about to. Not to mention she could never just leave Oliver like that but she was tired. The thought of peacefully slumbering as the world moved around you seemed nice.

So she kept walking and prayed she wouldn't collapse until she was somewhere safe.

Isabella continues to watch the shadows, admiring the way they block out the light of the moon and leave her to quiet solitude.

He found her early on.

She had felt him walking at her side as she crossed that bridge. A gentle nudge at her hand when she stared too long at that river. But he made no move to appear. Content to just wait by her side as she gathered the splintered parts of her soul.

George didn't notice of course, he was no match for a fae let alone one trained as a spy with an affinity for darkness. She was surprised Azriel let him walk with her though the shadowsinger thought George was a threat he would no doubt be dead already.

Voices distantly register through the fog clouding her mind. George is talking quietly with someone outside. A voice that stirs some kind of recognition deep in her mind. The shadows shift and swirl too, as if they recognise it as well.

Isabella finds herself walking to the door, blanket clutched around her so tight that her knuckles turn white. The voices are louder the closer she gets but she makes no move to open it. Not when she knows whose outside.

For a moment she just stares at the handle, wondering if she's ready to open it and step out of her bubble.

She can feel him beside her, leant against the door frame as he quietly watches her. He would wait in here with her. For as long as she needed but Isabella also knew that Azriel worries. That his shadows had told him of the injuries they are covering on her arms.

Once upon a time she would have swatted them away. Horrified at allowing someone, anyone, to see such damage done to her pristine image. Now she was content with their company.

Isabella wondered how many times these same shadows had covered Azriel's own wounds, keeping them hidden and protected as they did their best to heal what they could.