I stood frozen, the midnight blue silk clutched between my trembling fingers. That scent—that terrible, unmistakable scent—clung to the fabric like a specter from my nightmares. My mind raced back to Lord Malachi's chambers, to those glass cases with their vacant-eyed occupants. The connection was undeniable.
"Your Grace?" Clara's voice seemed to come from far away. "Should I fetch the Duke?"
I nodded, unable to form words as panic clawed at my throat. Clara hurried away, leaving me alone with the poisoned gift. I carefully laid the gown back in its box as if it might bite me, then backed away.
How? How had this happened? Elara Ainsworth had been my refuge, a woman whose kindness had been a balm to my wounded spirit. Had she betrayed me? Or was she merely a pawn in someone else's twisted game?
The door burst open as Alaric strode in, his expression thunderous. "What's happened?"
