The late afternoon sun was beginning to dip behind the high stone walls of the capital, casting long, distorted shadows across the grounds of Prince Liam's private residence.
The sky was a bruised purple, the color of a healing wound, and the air was cooling rapidly.
Ashlyn stood at the heavy iron gates. She wore a dark, heavy cloak over her dress, the hood pulled up deep to hide her face from prying eyes. She did not want to be recognized. She did not want people to whisper that the Second Lady of the Thompson estate was knocking on the Prince's door alone.
Her heart hammered against her ribs. Her hands, hidden in the folds of her cloak, were shaking. But her face, beneath the shadow of the hood, was set in a mask of cold, brittle determination.
