Even Jericho, usually armed with a sharp tongue and unshakable confidence, looked small in the shadow of the unfolding disaster. The smug, clinical mask she wore had cracked, leaving behind nothing but the pale, sweating face of a woman who was out of her depth.
She looked at Evangeline—still and bloodless on the stone—and then at Silver. He wasn't the Queen's Jester anymore. He looked like a man who had been stripped raw, standing on the edge of a cliff, watching the only thing that kept him tethered to the earth slip away into the dark.
Jericho swallowed hard against the bile rising in her throat. Her legs felt like lead, nearly refusing to carry her weight, but she forced herself toward her shelves of medicine.
"Where is it... where is it?" she hissed, her hands shaking.
