The Winter Garden was… quiet. Too quiet. Except for the silver-masked figure standing right in front of me, like they belonged there, like the silence was theirs. Roses sagged under the weight of the moonlight, heads bowed, and the fountain’s trickling drip sounded—well, like a heartbeat stretched thin, wrong somehow. Gideon’s hand hovered near his sword, his body wound so tight it was a wonder he didn’t just snap forward already.
The figure inclined their head. Not threatening. More like a courtly bow, neat, polished. Too neat.
“You’ve grown sharper, Lady Ashcombe. Not quite the fool everyone remembers.”
My lips twitched. Almost a smile, almost not.
“Flattery in a midnight garden—very poetic. But if you hauled me out here for sweet whispers, you’ll be disappointed.”
“Romance is for p
