Garrick threw the wine glass against the wall the moment his chamber door closed.
It shattered against the stone, red liquid running down like a wound, and Miriam did not flinch at the sound. She had seen him lose his composure before, though rarely this badly, and never over a piece of broken metal.
"You are behaving like a man who has already lost," she said, closing the door behind her.
"You did not see what she carried," Garrick said, pacing the length of the room. "A crest I believed burned along with everything else that house ever was. If that woman has proof the Westwood name meant something before Ephraim ever touched the boy, then everything we have built since Cassius's death is standing on a foundation that could collapse the moment someone starts asking the right questions.
