The Witch's Doll ⚢

Chapter 21

Isla pulled her blazer over her white cotton blouse and next, her necktie. She adjusted every loose end and glanced at the clock. It was earlier than her usual running for the day, but it was because she couldn't sleep last night.

She concluded in those hours when sleep evaded her. She has to save her only friend left. Isla must admit that Poppy wasn't as close to her as she was with Henri, but the girl had always been there for her and she was for her.

All she knew was that Alessandra Adams was attacking her through them and a way for her to save their lives in whatever method Adams use to kill that she couldn't decipher yet. So after her run, she immediately freshened herself up.

Everyone knew Isla's favorite beverage was a cup of hot tea. When her head butler—Harold— brewed the perfect cup of the perfect temperature and perfect flavor, she took a sip. But the sudden bitterness was a flavor she wasn't used to. It was kind of metallic and rusty.

Isla spat it all out on the floor, prompting her aunt and her uncle to let out a shrill cry of shock and utter disgust.

"Isla!" Aunt Florence slammed the table, standing up from the other long end of the table. "What is the meaning of this?"

Unable to reply for her lungs constricted on an involuntary coughing fit.

"My lady!" Harold grabbed both her shoulders, fearing the future head of the house was poisoned.

"I...am fine." Isla mustered. She grabbed her napkin at the table and proceeded to wipe the nasty flavor off her tongue.

"Isla," her aunt called for her attention. Isla couldn't read the new expression that featured on her face. "Are you perchance, ill?"

"No, I am well, dear aunt," Isla said, slurping some water in three gulps. "I am merely just..." her thoughts strayed towards Henri.

It didn't help at all. Now she knew why she didn't like tea. It reminded her of the taste of blood.

"Isla," Aunt Florence said, her visage contorted back to its original emotion, proud and arrogant.

Uncle Leonard sighed, grasping his wife's hand and his tone alarmingly sharp. "Now, now my dear. Your blood pressure."

"I am well aware, now let me speak to my niece," she slurred her words when talking to her husband, but when it came to her, it was strictly cordial. "The death of Henri De Ferrers must have taken its toll on you. Death is no laughing matter, I don't have the foggiest idea why he would ever kill himself, but I know that I don't want you following him gruesomely because of despair. I advise you to stay at home as soon as your exams are over for the day."

"No," Isla said, earning a smug look from her aunt, but she didn't falter. "I have to go to school."

"Stubborn child, you can't possibly—"