Rosamund
A young maid broke from the group and ran toward the kitchen.
I looked down at Nevan's face. The mask hid everything above his jaw, but his mouth was slack, his lips tinged faintly grey. I pressed my hands against his chest and felt his heart beating beneath my palm. It was weak but persistent.
"You're not dying on me, Nevan Wilder," I murmured. "Not today. Not before you explain yourself."
"That will not be necessary."
The voice came from the courtyard entrance. It was low and clear, carrying an authority born of certainty.
I turned just in time to see a woman walk through the gates.
She was tall, dressed in a blue hooded cloak that fell to her ankles, her face partially obscured by the cowl. But what I could see stopped me cold. Curly hair, dark as ink, spilt from beneath the hood, and her eyes, visible even at a distance, were blue.
