Across the courtyard, a loud bang sounded, echoing strangely across the stones. Winton released her and turned around. Constance quickly spotted the source of the noise: a door had opened violently, thumping against the wall. A man stood on the doorstep of the tall, round tower to the right of the gates—the north tower, she remembered—his rich velvet robes disheveled; his eyes wild; his beard long, gray, and tangled; his wrists painfully thin. And he met Constance’s eyes with a wild gaze, hurrying forward through the shifting fog as if he knew her, his black cloak whipping around his legs.

She squinted. Did she know him too?

“My daughter! My daughter!” he cried.

And suddenly Constance recognized the stranger, her heart convulsing.

It was her father. It was the Duke.

She had to stop herself from fleeing him—and the shocking truth.

My father is crazy.

Six years ago, her father had been the sanest, most practical person she knew—sane to a fault. She remembered his level, determined gaze and couldn’t match the father she had known then with the specter now rushing at her through the storm cloud.

Before he reached her, Constance glimpsed another tall man emerging from the north tower as if in pursuit, his brown coat—the many-pocketed outfit of a physician—flapping in his wake.

The Duke gazed at her—and for a second his dark eyes cleared. She felt confusion drain from her body, replaced by pity and horror. And then his head bowed down, as if with the weight of heavy thoughts, and he buried his face in her neck, clutching her close, shaken by sobs. She felt the wet of his tears on her collarbone. Is it really Father? Constance suppressed a shudder as the Duke’s bony arms encircled her tightly, and she held her breath: his white hair was greasy and foul-smelling. What did the Duchess think of this? Why had she not ensured he was properly cared for?

Gradually, she forced herself to return the embrace, meeting Winton’s eyes over her father’s shoulder. Her half brother lowered his gaze.

After a time, she gently pried the Duke from her and turned to her brother. “Winton, where is your mother?” she asked quietly.

He shook his head, and for the first time she realized he was dressed head to toe in black. “She … she died, not two weeks past,” he said.