Marissa's hands were clamped so tightly around the small, silver locket that its heart shape dug a painful, crescent-shaped groove into her palm.
She was back at the estate, her mind a whirlwind of terror and calculation. The memory of her past life, of Lily's broken body on the stones below a balcony, was so vivid, so horribly clear, that it was hard to breathe. It was happening again.
She had to go. She could not wait. She thought of ordering a carriage, but the memory of how long it took—the summoning of the footmen, the harnessing of the horses—made her want to scream. It would take fifteen, twenty minutes. The Red Lantern Den was a twenty-minute walk, if she ran. She could beat the carriage.
Then she saw him. Ian, the Duke's personal guard, his shadow, was walking out of the main study, a heavy leather satchel of ledgers and parchments in his hand. He was on his way to Derek, wherever the Duke was hiding himself.
He was her messenger.
"Ian!"
