The silence that followed Isadora's whisper was not truly silent. It was a living, breathing thing, heavy with the sound of the rain lashing against the shop windows and the dying hiss of the fire in the grate. The shadows in the corners of the room seemed to stretch, fed by the dim, guttering candlelight, curling like smoke around the bolts of silk and velvet that lined the walls.
"He's going to kill her," Isadora repeated, the words tasting like ash and iron on her tongue. She was still trembling, the phantom sensation of mud and cold rain clinging to her skin, though she was kneeling on the dry wood of her own kitchen floor.
Bram stared at her, his small, pale face a mask of confusion and rising panic. The sharpened chair leg was still gripped tight in his hand, his knuckles white, but the point of it wavered, dropping toward the floorboards. He looked at the locked door where the Duke had vanished, then back at his sister, his eyes wide and glassy.
