Beatrice woke to the taste of iron and silk.
The world around her had slowed to a murmur. Candlelight flickered against the vaulted ceiling. Her head pulsed. Her ribs ached like someone had shattered them from the inside.
And when she tried to sit up, she found herself cradled against something solid.
"Stay still," Francois said. His voice was tight. Frayed.
She blinked, her vision swam. The smell of wine still clung to her skin.
Somewhere to her left, a physician was shouting orders. Somewhere to her right, she could hear the clatter of armor. Guards were flooding the ballroom like wolves scenting blood.
Then came another voice. Sharp, and cutting.
"Where is my daughter?"
Beatrice flinched.
Footsteps struck the marble like thrown daggers.
"Step aside," Conrad Da Ville barked.
