The D'Argente manor was quiet save for the low crackle of the hearth, its flames painting gold across velvet drapes and polished stone. Serathine sat at her writing desk, the latest dispatch from Trevor's network spread before her. Her long fingers, tipped in garnet lacquer, smoothed an invisible crease in the tablet case as her amber eyes burned with something colder than fire.
"Ophelia," she murmured, the name a shard of glass on her tongue. "So she did fail in the end."
Across the room, Caelan lounged in an armchair carved too fine for his careless posture, one leg draped over the other, a glass of brandy loose in his hand. His brown hair, elegantly streaked white at the temples, caught the firelight like bronze filigree. But it was his green eyes, the same shade as Lucas's, that narrowed as they studied her in silence.
