The atmosphere in the west wing of the Thompson estate was heavy, suffocating, and thick with the poisonous fumes of disappointment. The sun was shining outside, bright and cheerful, mocking the dark mood that had settled over the chamber of the Second Master and his wife.
The news of Marissa's "resurrection" had shattered the fragile, joyful peace Ashlyn and Carlos had built on the foundation of her supposed death.
The mourning banners outside the gate had been taken down. The whispers among the servants had shifted from tragic gossip to hushed awe. The Grand Duchess was alive. She was free. And she was back in power, her authority absolute.
Ashlyn paced.
She moved back and forth across the expensive Persian rug, her heels clicking a sharp rhythm on the polished floorboards.
Click-clack. Click-clack.
She held her silk fan in a white-knuckled grip, snapping it open and shut, open and shut, the sound like the cracking of small bones.
