LUCIEN
The messenger came at dawn, a thin man with darting eyes who seemed as if he’d rather be anywhere else. He held a sealed envelope stamped officially as though by a lawyer closing out some deceased relative’s estate.
“This is for Lady Lena Black,” he said, his voice trembling. “It comes from the will of Godric Blackthorn, to be opened when he is confirmed dead.”
The name made my blood run cold. Godric—Lena’s father, the man who’d treated her like dirt for so long, who’d used them both as political fodder. Dead now, murdered by his own son in the madness that had brought all this about.
“I’ll take it,” I said, holding out my hand. "Lady Lena is getting over past trauma. I'll be sure she gets it when the time comes."
The messenger looked uncertain. “And my orders were to just take
