A week. Seven days. One hundred and sixty-eight hours.
An eternity, and a blink of an eye.
For a week, Caelan Alaric Virellion, the Iron Duke of Ravenshade, had been haunted. It was not the familiar ghosts of grief or duty that stalked the silent halls of his mind, but the ghost of a living girl with storm-gray eyes and a tongue sharp enough to flay a man's soul.
Coward.
The word echoed in the vast, cold silence of his own mind, a brand seared deeper than any physical mark. He had not felt the sting of an insult in over two centuries. He had forgotten the sensation. Isadora Wren had reminded him.
He stood by the tall, arched window of the Council Chamber in Upper Bellmere, staring down at the city without seeing it. His hands were clasped behind his back, his posture a study in aristocratic control. The black wool of his coat was immaculate, the silver signet ring on his finger cold against his skin. To any observer, he was the Duke, untouchable and serene.
