"What?" Penelope felt her stomach turn cold. "That can't be possible."
"Here," Adrian said quietly, passing her his copy and pointing to a particular article.
Penelope read, her eyes moving faster with each line:
HORROR IN FROSTWICK: MYSTERIOUS DEATHS BAFFLE AUTHORITIES
This morning, the bodies of four individuals were discovered in various locations throughout Frostwick. The Metropolitan Police have confirmed that all victims appear to have been drained of blood, though the method remains unknown. Authorities are urging residents to remain indoors after dark until the perpetrator is apprehended.
Dr. Darcy Pritchard, who examined the bodies, stated: "In my thirty years as a physician, I have never seen anything quite like this. The wounds are precise. Whatever, or whoever, did this knew exactly what they were doing."
Speculation runs rampant about the nature of these deaths. Some whisper of disease, others of a madman loose in London's streets. The Midnight Chronicles will continue to follow this developing story...
Penelope's hands trembled slightly as she lowered the paper. "That's... that's terrifying."
"Frostwick is miles from Mayfair," Anthony said, though his voice carried less certainty than his words. "We're perfectly safe here."
"But what could cause such a thing?" Calliope asked, her earlier enthusiasm completely vanished. "Drained of blood? How is that even possible?"
"Some sort of plague, perhaps," Edmund suggested. "Or a disease we haven't encountered before."
"The paper says they're still investigating," the Duchess said, though she had pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders. "I'm sure the authorities will get to the bottom of it."
"In the meantime," the Duke said firmly, "no one leaves the house without proper escort. Particularly at night. Is that understood?"
A chorus of "Yes, Father" went around the table.
But Penelope couldn't shake the chill that had settled over her. Drained of blood. What kind of monster would do such a thing?
The rest of dinner passed in subdued conversation. Even Raphael's attempts at humor fell flat. When the last course was cleared away, Penelope dragged Calliope up the stairs to her bedroom.
"Well," Calliope said, closing the door behind them. "That was cheerful."
Penelope collapsed onto her bed with a dramatic sigh. "Tomorrow is going to be dreadful."
"Tomorrow?"
"The presentation to the Queen," Penelope said, staring at the canopy above her bed. "Every debutante in London, lined up like prized cattle for Her Majesty's inspection. Then another ball in the evening. More dancing, more tedious conversation, more gentlemen comparing me to celestial bodies."
"That doesn't sound so bad," Calliope said, settling into the window seat. "You get to wear a beautiful gown, dance with handsome men—"
"You don't understand," Penelope interrupted. "They don't see me, Callie. They see the Duke of Winterhaven's daughter. They see a dowry. They see a connection to my brothers. But me? The actual person? I might as well be invisible."
Calliope was quiet for a moment. Then: "What about the Viscount?"
"What about him?"
"Did he see you?"
Penelope thought about Lord Ashmore's gray eyes. You're not like the others, he'd said.
"I don't know," she admitted quietly. "Maybe. For a moment."
"You fancy him!" Calliope bounced on the window seat with delight. "You absolutely fancy him!"
"I do not—"
"You're blushing!"
"I am not blushing, I'm simply—" Penelope pressed her hands to her heated cheeks. "Oh, blast. This is ridiculous. I barely know the man."
"But you want to know him," Calliope said with a knowing smile.
"It doesn't matter what I want," Penelope said, flopping back onto the bed. "My brothers have made it abundantly clear that Lord Ashmore is unsuitable. And my father agrees, apparently. So that's that."
"Since when have you cared what your brothers think?"
"Since they formed a literal wall of intimidation in Hyde Park this morning," Penelope said dryly. "Even I am not foolish enough to go against all four of them."
"Hmm," Calliope said, sounding entirely unconvinced. "We'll see about that."
"There's nothing to see. Lord Ashmore made his feelings perfectly clear, he's not interested in marriage, and by extension, not interested in me. End of story."
"If you say so," Calliope said in that infuriating tone that suggested she knew better.
Penelope grabbed a pillow and threw it at her cousin's head. "Goodnight, Callie."
Calliope caught the pillow with a laugh. "Goodnight, Pen. Sweet dreams of your definitely-not-interesting Viscount."
"I hate you."
"No you don't."
Calliope slipped out, still laughing, leaving Penelope alone with her thoughts.
She should sleep. Tomorrow would be exhausting, the presentation to the Queen was a grueling affair that required perfect posture, perfect deportment, and a gown so elaborate she would need two maids to help her dress. Then the ball afterward, where she'd be expected to dance and smile and pretend she wasn't dying of boredom.
But instead, she found herself thinking about Lord Ashmore. About his sardonic smile and his brutal honesty. About the way he had asked her to the races, not because he wanted to court her, but because he'd seen she needed rescuing.
And she thought about four bodies drained of blood in Frostwick, and the strange timing of it all.
She thought about these things for a very long time before sleep finally claimed her.
And when she dreamed, she dreamed of gray eyes and shadows, and a voice that whispered: You're not like the others.