The black wax of the Blood Writ looked exactly like dried blood against the white oak floorboards.
Jane stared at the parchment. Her father’s signature sat perfectly centered at the bottom of the page. The man who had taught her how to hold a porcelain teacup, who had corrected her posture with a wooden ruler, had signed a legally binding order to have her throat cut. He hadn't done it with malice. He had done it with immaculate penmanship.
That was what made it unforgivable.
She didn't scream. She didn't drop to her knees. The familiar, terrifying ice closed over her chest, freezing her lungs into perfect, clinical stillness. She compartmentalized the betrayal, folding it into a tiny, bloodless box in the back of her mind.
She looked down at the silver knife in her right hand. It was
