MORIA
Before I can ask anything else, Morgana reaches for the door on the right and twists the knob to push it open.
It’s …quaint.
This room that is now supposedly mine.
The roof is slanting and low, wooden beams running straight across it.
The floor is made of the same light brown wood as the rest of the house but the stone walls have been painted the creamy shade of soft butter.
In the sunlight, it would probably be one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen.
But for now, all I can think is at least it’s warm.
There is a wardrobe to the right that looks like it belongs to an era before electricity.
Next to it, an armoire below a tall rectangular mirror whose frame is wrapped in twisting vines of dark green.
I catch my reflection in it and immediately look away.
I do not
