The air inside Duke Vernhardt's private study was thick enough to choke a man. It smelled of stale tobacco, expensive brandy, and the metallic tang of old ink.
Duke Vernhardt sat behind his desk, his face a landscape of deep-set lines and twitching muscles. Before him lay a pile of ledgers and letters, none of them good. Since what the gossip rags were calling the tea party, the House of Vernhardt had been hemorrhaging prestige. Three major trade partners had already sent "regretful" notes postponing their contracts, citing a sudden need to re-evaluate their interests.
He knew what that meant. In the Capital, social ruin was the precursor to financial death.
A sharp, frantic pounding on the double doors shattered the silence. Before he could grant permission, the doors burst open.
Marien stumbled into the room. Her hair, usually pinned in a perfect crown, was limp and frizzy. Her eyes were bloodshot, and she paced the length of the rug like a caged animal.
