CHAPTER THIRTY SIX
Henry d’Angelica walked the grounds of the Duke of Axshire’s estates, heading for the burials the family kept on their edges. It was a surprisingly quiet spot for the dead, given how the average noble house liked to shout about its ancestors: ringed in by rowan and ash trees, shielded from the rest of the estate by a babbling brook that looked as though it had been put in by the same landscaper who had felled the trees before the house proper.
As for the burial ground, it was a place of mausoleums and monuments in overwrought marble and black granite, ranging from the elegantly simple to the needlessly gilded and ornate. A statue of the Masked Goddess in her role as taker of the dead stood at its heart. It was the kind of place that should have made Henry feel disquiet
