A week passed in a tense, quiet rhythm. The salon had been a successful skirmish, a small victory that bolstered my confidence, but the war was still looming. The Winter Solstice Ball was the stated prize, but Harren, I was learning, was not a man who waited for scheduled events. He created his own.
The opportunity came not with an invitation, but with an ambush. It was a crisp, clear afternoon, and I was walking through the castle's lesser-used east gallery, a long hall lined with portraits of dour-looking ancestors. I preferred it to the main corridors; there were fewer eyes, fewer whispers. I was heading for the small, private library I'd discovered, a place where I could read in peace, away from the weight of expectation.
