“Of course. I will call on you later,” she promised, as he limped off to his rooms. He stopped next to the huge white hound, which was starting to come around, and Constance watched as he coaxed it to its feet. “What are you doing? That animal is vicious. It should be put to death,” she said.

“He’s just been mistreated,” Winton said, running a hand along the scars on the dog’s flank. “You’ll see.”

He is too good for this world, she thought.

Soon, apart from the Duke’s pale body and those who had joined him in death, Constance and Xander stood alone in the bloodstained courtyard.

“Never have I seen such disrespect for the dead,” said Xander, his voice as worn and smooth as old silk. “Are you all right? What happened to your head?”

Constance lifted her hand to the scorching wound on her brow. It felt tender, her skin hot and raised. “Dr. Thorn,” she said shortly.

“Let me see.” He examined it carefully, his face close to hers. “It looks worse than it is,” he said. “I don’t think all this blood is your own.” He wiped his thumb under her eye. “Don’t cry.”

She blinked. She hadn’t realized hot tears were running down her cheeks. She turned away, annoyed at herself, wiping her face on her sleeve.

“You should have stayed back from the fighting,” he said.

“I could hardly do that. It was my battle,” she said, her voice sharp with hurt. “I’m not some defenseless little girl. Without me, Dr. Thorn might’ve killed you all.”

“I know … I just want you to be safe,” Xander replied quietly. After a pause, he continued. “It seems churlish to ask you to tell me the whole truth after all this.” He pushed his long hair back from his face. “But I still need to know. I have trusted you, Constance. And now you need to trust me.”

“We will talk,” she said, “and I will set your mind at ease.” The salt of her tears was drying on her lips. “We have a lot to do. My father …”

Xander placed a hand on her shoulder, his emerald-green eyes softening slightly. “I’ll deal with this. You go, rest, have your wound seen to. I’ll call on you this afternoon, and you can tell me everything.”

Constance sat on the rug in her bedroom. It was noon, but felt later. In fact, it felt like she’d lived a hundred days since last night.

She had bathed, eaten, slept, and changed into a soft, dove-gray gown. She’d found a pair of long cream gloves to hide her metal arm, and wrapped a woolen shawl around her shoulders for warmth. A fire crackled in the hearth. Her hair was unbound, reaching the base of her shoulder blades.