The damp draft sweeping through the barren entry corridor carried the stench of rotting floor joists, yet the heavy thud of approaching boots sounded with aggressive, deliberate confidence.
Grace Harper turned away from the grand dining hall, her green silk skirts brushing against the bare, scratched wainscoting where imported walnut panels had hung only yesterday. Emerging from the shadowed archway leading to the rear courtyards, Bryce Conway stepped into the center of the hall, rolling his broad shoulders beneath a dark canvas tunic that smelled faintly of scorched sulfur and damp dirt. His jaw was set with absolute certainty, his stride possessed the heavy bounce of a predator entering familiar hunting grounds, and he did not glance once at the stripped masonry or the dust squares mark
