I was halfway asleep before I even reached my room.
The walk back from the bathhouse had been slow, warm steam still curling from my shoulders, my robe barely tied at the waist. I didn't bother calling for a maid—there was nothing I needed. No one I wanted.
The air inside was cooler than I had expected, though the lanterns had already been lit. A soft glow filled the corners of the room. I stepped in barefoot, trailing damp footprints behind me, already thinking about which comb to use on my hair and whether or not I'd get through the night without dreaming of blood again.
And then something shifted.
It wasn't loud. Not dramatic. But my body reacted before my mind caught up. I dropped the folded towel from my arms and twisted left.
A knife sliced through the space where my throat had been a breath earlier.
It grazed the end of my hair instead, slicing Deming's ribbon free.
