I didn’t remember climbing into the carriage.
One moment, I stood in the hush of a splintered choice, Ingrid’s plea still echoing between my ribs, and the next I was seated across from Lord Evander Dorne, my gloved hands folded so tightly in my lap that the edges of my nails bit crescent moons into the soft leather. The inside of the carriage was warmer than the outside world, though not by much; a muted cold still clung to the velvet seats and crept beneath the folds of my borrowed cloak, as if even the air itself had second thoughts about the path we had chosen.
Ingrid sat to my left, her posture a careful study in relaxed elegance—one ankle tucked just so behind the other, chin lifted at an angle that suggested she had long ago grown accustomed to the attentions of noblemen, even if w
