Silence. Thick as storm clouds, heavy as judgment.
Diana was probably right. I was mad; there was no other way to describe the reason for the numbing silence in the room. Only a mad person could do it, could conduct this massacre of music, could hold hundreds of people ransom to silence.
The grand hall — once bloated with music, wine, and whispers — now held its breath, waiting for the Queen to speak. And I? I sat in the center of it all, my fingers resting lightly on the stem of my goblet, trying not to show just how hard my heart was pounding.
Everyone was watching the Queen. But I watched everyone else.
Her family, for instance. The stunned, tight-lipped Raul. The pale, visibly trembling Rachel. Duke, whose mouth had pressed into a furious line, was beginning to stand, then stopped when the Queen did not acknowledge him.
