The echo of Madam Valeska's carriage wheels finally faded into the bustling white noise of the Silver District, leaving a heavy, ringing silence inside the cavernous space of the new boutique. The sunlight, while beautiful, now felt like a spotlight on a crime scene.
Elias had not moved from the marble pillar. His hands, usually so steady when holding a needle or sketching a silhouette, were buried deep in the pockets of his slate-grey coat, but the visible tremor in his shoulders betrayed him. The confrontation had been brief, but for a man who had spent years under Valeska's thumb, it was the equivalent of surviving a physical assault.
