“Did you hear that?” Constance breathed. They met each other’s eyes through the storm cloud, which flashed blue and shifted between them in the pinkish glow of dawn. For a moment they were children again, and their father was in trouble. And then, at the same time, they looked up.

“Please, I beg you—” The Duke’s words terminated midsentence.

“Father! Father!” Winton called out, throwing himself toward the tower, pure panic in his voice. Constance followed, her skirts flying. Glass crunched under her feet as she neared the tower’s base. A primal terror gripped her.

“Pa!” Winton’s voice broke on a word he hadn’t used since childhood.

A large dark shape fell sharply from above; the air whistled, the cloud parted, a wet thwack rang out on the paving stones at their feet—so close, she felt the atmosphere ripple. It happened so quickly. For a few long moments, Constance could not move. Black blood spread across the cobblestones. She stared at the body.

Father. My father.

Somewhere far beneath the dumb shock freezing her limbs, her thoughts raged. Only yesterday she’d been at his side. She’d broken through the spell on his mind, and they’d talked. It can’t be a coincidence…

Winton dropped to his knees in the dark, wet pool, looked into his father’s staring eyes, which gleamed in the semi-light of dawn, just breaking over the battlements. He looked and looked, clearly unable to believe what he was seeing. Then his eyes rose again to the tower. Constance felt her whole body shaking, but she followed his gaze, stood very still, and listened, and tried to think.

Footsteps echoed down from the stairs. Dr. Thorn appeared at the threshold, panting.

“No … ,” the physician managed, his face contorted with exaggerated shock.

“Help him, for Ancestors’ sake!” Winton cried in frustration.

Help him? Help him? Is he crazy? Constance’s mind was swimming. One thing was clear to her: Jonas Thorn is the killer! She raised her cane in sudden anger, feeling the power burning under her skin. I’ll turn him mad, crack his skull against the pavement, see how he likes it.

But curiosity got the better of her. She only watched as Thorn crouched beside the Duke, shook his head.

“Do something!” Tears flooded Winton’s trusting, stupid eyes. “Help him, Dr. Thorn!”

Obediently, the doctor rested his fingers on the Duke’s exposed neck, curiously clean and pale against the mess of his skull. “I’m sorry,” he said after a time. “He’s gone, Winton. The Duke is dead.”

Voices sounded in the gloom: the Duke’s last struggle had woken the castle. Questions rang out across the courtyard.

“The Duke is dead!” Thorn announced to the new arrivals. As people spied the body between the shifting clouds, screams of confusion laced the air.