Far away, to the southeast of Paris, Margaux de Montvieux was troubled. ’Twas some commentary on the mood of Rowan’s foster mother that she found herself within Château Montvieux’s chapel and that her steps turned in the direction of the altar. Though she sought solace of a kind, ’twas not absolution of a religious nature that would do.
Margaux had been trained young to apologize to her father directly, without evasion or delay. His death changed nothing but the location where that apology was rendered.
The weight of her legacy hung heavy on this day and ’twas, Margaux knew, because she had done nothing right. She strode to the altar in the chapel, pausing long enough on the threshold of a darkened doorway to take a flickering torch in her hand.
The golden light spilled down the curling
