It was always Lisette's fault. No matter what happened, what had been said — it was always her fault. But you knew better than that and had grown a pitiful feeling for poor Lisette. You insisted, coming to her whenever Goldia did something, whenever Fleta lied.

This time it had been Goldia's fault, you knew it, and probably everyone else knew. But no, it had been Lisette, the poor little martyr. She had closed herself in a room filled with mirrors, wanting to 'purify' herself for something she had not done yet again.

You found her curled up, holding a little cross and surrounded by religious motifs, mourning. “Leave.”, was the only thing heard when she spoke with a weak string of voice.