The first warning was the wrong kind of silence.
No guard's boots pacing outside. No distant cough from the kitchen.
Just still air, heavy enough to press against her skin.
Isabella set down the mending and reached for the hairpin in her bun.
Nancy had always joked it was sharp enough to gut a fish. Tonight, it would have to be sharper.
---
A faint shift in the shadows by the door—too smooth for a draft.
The outline of a man, then the glint of steel.
The blade swung for her throat. She ducked low, jamming the hairpin into the attacker's wrist.
He hissed, dropped the knife, and she drove her knee into his ribs.
Another footstep in the hall.
A second man, face masked, moved for the cradle.
“No," she said, voice a growl pulled from somewhere deeper than words.
She caught the edge
