Melanna stayed low for a long time thereafter, her hands still clasped over her head. Her breathing steadied, her heartbeat alongside. She risked an upward glance.

The killer had gone, the crows with him.

Rising on trembling feet, Melanna edged towards the second body. He lay on his back, sword still in hand. His eyes stared emptily at the sky from a face spattered the colour of his crimson robes. His throat was a bloody ruin.

“Nothing I can do for you,” she breathed. “I’m sorry.”

The mists were thinning. Fading into the night with the killer’s departure. Had he called them into being, or had they summoned him? Melanna shook her head. It was enough that he was gone, and she was alive.

A low moan reminded Melanna that the woman still lived. She turned back . . .

A pair of large, muscular shapes appeared through the thinning mist. Recognising too late the horses for what they were, Melanna scowled away embarrassment. The beasts seemed entirely too calm for what they’d just witnessed, but who knew whether they’d seen what she had? She knelt again beside the dying woman. Shallow breaths and a slow, febrile pulse offered little promise of recovery.

Did that matter? The woman was a Tressian, a warrior and an enemy. Had they met on the battlefield, duty dictated that Melanna strike her down.

But they had not met on the battlefield, so duty had no claim. And honour? Honour decreed that Melanna offer whatever help she could. Glory in victory, fortitude in defeat, and honour always – the warrior’s mantra.

Rosa danced on a carpet of autumn leaves beneath a gleaming manor house. The trees of her uncles’ estate screened the sky, holding the ruddy sunset at bay with upswept arms. She clung tight to her partner as they traced the dance’s spiralling steps, her nose almost touching the beak of his black-feathered domino mask.

She couldn’t think where she’d been before. Nor could she recall what had possessed her to don the bare-shouldered gown whose russet skirts threatened to trip her with every step. There was only the dance, and the music’s slowing beat. And a sense of belonging.

Fiddle strings fell silent. Rosa’s partner arched his arm, inviting her to a pirouette. She gladly complied, and turned a graceful step. She couldn’t recall his name, nor picture the face that lay hidden beneath a mask that covered all save the dark goatee.

At silent urging, she turned another pirouette, as graceful as the first. Partway round, she glimpsed something new beneath the trees. A woman, lying face down in the soil, her clothes stained crimson. Another woman knelt beside her, hands bloody as she sought to stem the flow.

Rosa turned her back on the strange tableau. Flutes fell silent as colour slipped from the sky. Her partner smiled, and they began another spiralling circuit to the lonely beat of a drum.