By morning, the tempest had battered itself out, leaving the sky over Vaugard Valley the color of bruised slate. A bitter frost coated the iron railings of the balcony, freezing the puddles of rainwater left behind from Marcus’s frantic intrusion.
Lalaine sat at the small mahogany writing desk in her chamber, her posture rigid, her hands pressed flat against the polished wood. She had not slept a single second.
The midnight-blue gown had been whisked away by silent servant girls at dawn and replaced with a plain, slate-gray linen dress that felt like rough burlap against her sensitive skin.
When the heavy oak doors clicked open, it was not the harsh clatter of breakfast trays that broke the stillness.
Beta Barton stepped into the room. He wore his crisp, high-collared black tunic, his
