Esme, understanding her cue, lunged forward, crawling on her knees on the dusty road. "Your Grace!" she cried, her voice high and desperate, aimed not at Marissa, but at Derek. "Please, you must reconsider! The suburbs? That place is so far away! It is so remote!" She turned her terrified gaze to the silent crowd. "If that terrible Lord Ashford, the man who burned our home, decides to seek revenge there, what will she do? She will be all alone! How can my lady possibly defend herself?"
Senna, seeing her maid's perfect play, made her own move. She slowly, weakly, stepped away from Derek's supporting arm. She tried to stand on her own, a picture of frail, tragic nobility. She turned to him, her voice a heartbreaking, fragile whisper.
