Standing up, I caught hold of his arm, trying to drag him up. But he was intractable. Moving him against his will would be impossible. “I didn’t mean…” he said. “I didn’t know it was her.”

He kept trying to say that he hadn’t meant to kill her, but the lie wouldn’t pass his lips.

“Tristan, it was in defense. Whether she wanted to or not, she tried to shoot me.” My feet slid in the slurry of blood and snow, but he wouldn’t let go of her. He was covered with blood, and in the distance, I could hear the sounds of horses coming this way. “We have to run!

None of what I was saying seemed to register with him. The notion that now would be an opportune time to use his name crossed my mind, but I shoved it aside. Making a fist like Fred had taught me, I pulled my arm back and swung, using the strength of my shoulder. My knuckles collided with his cheek and pain burst through my hand. Tristan jerked away, but more in surprise than in pain.

He stared up at me. “I don’t want to leave her like this.”

“We have no choice,” I said, wishing I didn’t need to be so callous. “We need to flee.”

We ran through the blizzard and darkness, my skirts pulled up to my knees with one hand and my heeled shoes in the other. My stockings were soaked through in seconds, and not long after the bottoms tore through, exposing the soles of my feet. I was too afraid to feel the discomfort. The city guard would have found Esmeralda by now, and they did not need to be quick-witted to follow tracks in the snow. We needed to get where other people were and then inside so that we could wash away the evidence. Not that it mattered much. Both Aiden and Fred would know who had killed her, and this might well be the opportunity the Regent’s son was looking for.

“This way,” I hissed, pulling Tristan toward a main boulevard. When we were closer, I slipped my shoes on my numb feet, dropped my skirts, and took his arm. “Smile,” I ordered as we stepped out into the traffic of people on the walkways. There I was able to flag down a cab, neither of us saying anything until the horse was trotting in the direction of the hotel.

“I’m sorry I hit you,” I said. “But you weren’t listening. You were in shock.”

He didn’t reply. We passed through the bubble of light from a lamp, and I saw the white of his cravat was stained with blood. Fingers numb and shaking, I untied it, shoving the fabric into the pocket of my cloak. He was covered in blood, I was sure, but everything else he was wearing was black, so hopefully no one would notice. I squeezed his hand, the leather soaked and sticky. “Tristan, are you all right?”