The freezing night wind whipped through the bare branches of the willow tree, whistling like a warning across the dark garden stones.
Elara stood as still as carved marble inside the shadowed stone archway. She held her brass lantern tight against her ribs, the wick extinguished so not a single spark of light gave away her position. The heavy emerald silk of her formal gown pooled quietly around her boots, while the cool stone wall pressed against her back. Her dark hair, free from its silver pins, fell across her shoulders, tickling her cheeks as she held her breath. Her heart beat with a steady, clinical rhythm, her sharp dark eyes locked on the two men through the frosted windowpane.
Outside in the snow, Lysander pulled his torn gray wool shirt tighter around his shivering chest.
The
