Their canopies hide the light of the moon while their dark leaves seem to absorb the illumination from the party’s lanterns. My shoe—an impractical thing that matches this impractical dress—catches on a rock on the ground, and I trip. My knees hit the dirt with a dull thud. The fabric of the dress absorbs most of the shock, but it also makes it harder for me to find my footing. Cursing, I grab up fistfuls of silk and lace. A cool breeze toys at the fabric in my hands, making it even harder to gather. The wind blows my hair into my face just as it blows the clouds away from the moon.

I brush my hair away and look up, now that I have at least some light by which to see.

And immediately wish I hadn’t.

Before me stands a tree.

From that tree, a thick branch protrudes.

From that thick branch hangs a rope.

And from that rope hangs a body.

It sways in the evening wind, booted feet twirling ever so slightly in place. Dark hair hangs over the face, obscuring the poor soul’s identity from view. From the build and clothing, obviously a man. From the quality of those clothes—I saw them, I swear, at some point tonight, but where I cannot recall—he is likely a nobleman. His hands hang limply at his sides. Something—blood, perhaps—stands out against the skin of one hand. A scrap of paper sticks out from his pocket, as if shoved there in haste. Beneath the lanky hair, the man’s chin is just barely visible, square and strong and familiar.

Gathering my skirts, I force myself to stand. The night has gone eerily quiet. Were there birds singing just now? And have they stopped? The wind dies down. The soft soles of my shoes crunch over dead leaves and dry twigs.

I do not want to get a better look, but something drives me forward, some dark, invisible force.

I know that jawline.

Voices rise low in the darkness, coming from behind me. I am rooted to the ground as if I had become one of these very trees.

A woman’s voice. The one from earlier. And the man, the one who said he could be—

She screams, the woman. The sound doesn’t pierce me. I hear it, but as if it were coming from very far away instead of right behind me.

I know that jawline.

I don’t know how long I stand there, staring up at the tree and its branch and its rope and its—