The heavy oak door of Carlos and Ashlyn's bedchamber was closed tight, sealing the room in a thick, suffocating silence. The air smelled of blood, sharp medicinal herbs, and the sweat of panic. The heavy velvet curtains were drawn, blocking out the evening light, leaving the room in a dim, yellowish gloom lit only by oil lamps.
Ashlyn lay in the center of the large four-poster bed. Her face was as pale as the linen sheets she clutched. Her hair was matted with sweat and stuck to her forehead. She looked small and broken.
Standing around the bed were the key players of the Thompson family tragedy: Beatrice, the Dowager Duchess, looking older and more frail than she had that morning; Marissa, the Grand Duchess, standing straight and silent near the foot of the bed; and Carlos, the Second Master, pacing back and forth like a caged tiger.
