Emmy's Tightening Grip

Emmy Jones, perched on the edge of the plush velvet sofa, watched Emma with a languid, almost predatory, grace. The afternoon sun, usually a cheerful visitor, seemed to dim slightly in the opulent drawing-room, casting long shadows that danced with the dust motes disturbed by Emmy’s restless pacing. Emma, as always, was a picture of serene stillness. She sat by the window, her fingers tracing invisible patterns on the cool glass, her gaze fixed on the manicured gardens outside. There was an almost ethereal quality to her composure, a placid surface that hid depths Emmy couldn’t fathom, but which, for now, suited her purposes perfectly.

“Emma, darling,” Emmy’s voice was a silken caress, dripping with an insincerity that would have been obvious to anyone else, but which Emma seemed to absorb without comment. “Are you quite comfortable? Mother was quite insistent that you have the finest silk cushions. She worries so, you know.”

Emma turned her head slowly, her eyes, the colour of a storm-tossed sea, met Emmy’s with an unnerving lack of expression. “I am perfectly comfortable, Emmy. Thank you.” Her voice was a low, steady murmur, like a distant stream.