In the west wing, behind curtains thick enough to smother a sunbeam, Alaric Velthorne stood in front of a mirror that did not show him anything and tried to remember how to knot a cravat.
"You are strangling it," said Lucius.
"I am not."
"You are murdering a perfectly innocent piece of silk, and if one of these guards were the silk, they would beg for mercy." Lucius pushed away from the wall, black umbrella tucked under one arm, and took the ends of the cravat out of Alaric's hands. "Stand still."
Alaric stood still. It was not easy. Every muscle in him wanted to prowl, to pace, to cross the whole mansion and stand outside her door and listen to her heartbeat until the world made sense again. He could hear it even now, faint and quick and warm, three halls away. It had been his compass for weeks. It was the only sound in the world that did not feel like noise.
"You're shaking," Lucius observed.
He tried to roll his eyes but failed, "I am not."
