The news came, as it always did, through Fiadh.
The maid was practically vibrating with excitement, her cheeks flushed, her eyes bright with a feverish glow that was both unsettling and strangely infectious.
"They've found him!" she whispered, her voice a conspiratorial hiss as she bustled around the room, plumping pillows and straightening covers with a feverish energy. "The person who...who did this to you."
Rache's hands went to her throat, a reflexive, protective gesture. The wound was covered now, a soft bandage hiding the raw, puckered skin from sight. But she could still feel it, a phantom pain that burned with the memory of the obsidian rose.
"Who?" The word was a hoarse, ragged sound, a painful effort that made her throat ache.
