CHAPTER 97
Grace sat stiff in her chamber long after Mathew left. The tea had gone cold in her hand, but she clung to the cup as though it anchored her to reality. The light bulb threw restless shadows across the walls, and every flicker made her glance twice. Robert's face lingered in her mind, the torn stomach, the blood tears, the silence.
She pressed her hand over her chest and whispered, "I know what I saw."
Sleep refused her, yet dawn came anyway. By the time she walked into the council hall, the elders were already gathered. Their gazes clung to her too tightly, as if waiting for some slip.
"King Quicke," one of them greeted, bowing stiffly. The others followed, but the motion lacked its usual steadiness. Whispers had been carried already, servants spoke when doors were left ajar, and guards never kept secrets long. Grace could feel it in the way their eyes trailed her, like they were measuring her worth.
