Ingrid did not wait for permission.
As though the cold had melted from her bones the moment opportunity came calling, she strode forward, leaving behind the half-stilled hush of snow and carriage wheels, the tangled breath of hesitation I still hadn’t exhaled. The hem of her cloak, a faded garnet shade, caught on a patch of slush but she didn’t notice—or perhaps she didn’t care. She had the gleam in her eyes again. The one that meant she’d already decided how the rest of the scene would unfold, and all we were meant to do was follow the script she was writing as she went.
“My lord,” she called out, her voice alight with an elegance that felt borrowed but not unfitting, “I do hope we’re not interrupting anything too serious.”
The man—Evander Dorne, Lena had said, and the name still clung
