How could I let Valarie take the blame? Yet, I needed those locks of hair desperately. But what would happen to Valarie? She'd be punished severely by the Wychthorn Princess. Guilt, dirty shameful guilt, slithered its way through my soul.

I couldn't even meet Romain's gaze as he darted swift glances at me, hearing what the girls were shrieking at one another. He quickly and efficiently wound the strip of cloth around Yveta's leg, binding the gaping flesh and tying the ends into a tight knot. "Sort this mess out," he bit at me, a hard judgmental note to his tone.

Romain rose and swept the Troelsen girl up into his arms, hurrying away with long, fast strides. Yveta's shrill voice carried down the hallway, growing fainter, but her disgust with Laurena lingered in the air. "I wish it was me! I wish I'd been the one to cut off your hair!"

I got to my feet, hands spread wide, trying to come between Laurena and Valarie. I should have confessed, I knew it deep down, but instead, I said something stupid and mundane. "Miss Wychthorn, I'm here to help you leave if you..."

My words drifted apart. I don't even know why I even bothered. As far as Laurena was concerned I wasn't even there, an invisible servant once again.

She spun on Valarie like a wolf. Her chilling smile was hateful. Voice vicious. "You didn't like me telling you some home truths about your family. That you'll never rise as Matriarch to Great House Wychthorn. You even tried to hit me. But you couldn't, could you? Because you're a coward," she sneered, prowling closer. "So what did you do instead? Wait until I was asleep and then skulk in with your creepy Crowther ways and cut all my hair off. Pathetic."

Once again I was rooted to the spot. Revulsion at Laurena's inability for empathy hurtled through me. Why didn't she see the state we were in? See what was going on? She was so self-absorbed. We were a blot of darkness in the hallway. We'd brought a stench of smoke and the metallic aftertaste of blood and death. I couldn't understand why Laurena couldn't see what was before her.

Anger churned through my veins—the bloodhound in me snarled.

I wanted to lash out. I wanted to strike her.

It wasn't just me I realized, as my gaze darted to Valarie. So many words were etched upon Valarie's face. So many things she wanted to say, but couldn't. Bitter resentment vibrated from her taut body. Injustice and mortification that this person before her, accusing her of something so small and insignificant compared to what we'd endure and survived, ruled us all.

I put a hand on Valarie's filthy shoulder. Her gaze sliced to me. A brief flare of surprise lit her gaze, to see that I was standing there. But she listened as I reminded her quietly. "A paintbrush. Paint the words into a picture in your mind and then hold them, stretch them tight like a rubber band, and let them fly."

Valarie whipped her gaze back to the Wychthorn Princess, sucked in a breath, paused, and then let everything she'd kept in, out. "People d-died, Laurena! So many people died tonight!" She stabbed a finger into the other girl's chest, and snarled, "And you st-stand there and go on about your b-bald head. That someone dared cut your h-hair off! You are ugly! You are so ugly! It's not even the l-lack of hair, it's your cruel, barbaric, unfeeling personality—th-that's what makes you ugly!"

Rage. Unadulterated, spiteful rage quaked through Laurena's limbs, contorted her features into wrath, and blazed through feral blue eyes. A shriek of outrage burbled from her throat to be spoken to like that.

Laurena flung her arm back and swung wide—

Her flattened fingers and palm sliced through the air—

Valarie moved fast, a smear of movement.

She stopped Laurena's impending slap across her cheek. Her fingers clenched around Laurena's wrist were so tight the knuckles were white. "Don't you dare," she hissed.

Laurena's chest rose and fell as she sucked in gusts of air. Her free hand tightened around the scissors. She leaned closer, getting right into her face, and bared her teeth. Her rasping tone was low and lethal and razor-sharp. Her words pure venom. "My brother couldn't ever be seriously interested in a Crowther. You're naive and stupid. Get it into your thick skull, Byron will never marry you. He'll marry whomever my father says, whoever comes from the right family. Oh," she said, barking a cold laugh—a nasty sound that sent a shiver of icicles down my spine. "He's toying with you, and you're too stupid to even see him for what he is. Someone having fun with the girl from the wrong House. He'll bed you, get want he wants—another story to tell his friends—and then move on like I warned you earlier. He'll discard you like the trash you are. Because my brother isn't interested in a Crowther. Not in the way you want."

"Except I am interested, Rena."

No one had noticed Byron Wychthorn's approach.

Each of us was struck silent and turned to stare at him. I didn't know who was more surprised—Laurena or Valarie or myself. Confusion widened Valarie's eyes, then a faint blush crept over her dirty pale features as she took in what he'd just said, admitted out loud.

Byron stood close by, looking like Valarie and myself—his once impeccable suit torn and stained with blood and splattered darkness, death haunting the depth of his eyes. But they were also banked with anger like an oncoming storm. I shivered at his voice when he said next, the commanding tone ruthless and cold, "And everything you've spat out like a snake, it's all a lie and you know it."

I took two silent steps away, my back hitting the wall, letting them have the space.

The sooty skin around Byron's eyes creased as he slowly raked his gaze over Laurena's head, what little remained of her hair, and then slid away dismissively.

Laurena's confidence was rocked when her brother approached, coming to stand in front of her, but beside Valarie, so close their shoulders almost touched. His expression was stone-cold—the face of Great House Wychthorn. "I heard everything you said to Valarie from your little henchman, Yveta, earlier this evening while you'd retired to your room to convalesce. She took great delight in spilling your vile, ugly secrets, warning Valarie to keep away, threatening her."

Laurena blanched. Her gaze darted from her brother to Valarie and then back again. She parted her mouth to say something, to deny it no doubt. But Byron slashed a hand in front of her, cutting her short before she even got to speak. "You can't help yourself, can you, Rena? You like to gossip about the cruelty you inflict on others. That's why I came looking for you, earlier. I wanted to snap your fucking neck."

Laurena flinched, a hand going involuntarily to her throat to knead it.

Byron's square jaw flexed. "That's why I went into your room and took away the one thing you love more than anything else—your looks."

"You wouldn't—"

"I did. I broke into your room and I cut all that glorious hair off. All those locks you spend so much time gazing at in the mirror, fussing with endlessly."

Laurena's eyes flew impossibly wide at her brother's confession. "That's so...immature and childish of you to cut away my hair," she breathed.

"Fitting I thought."

The pieces aligned well enough for Laurena though. What she'd done—everything she'd admitted to Yveta who had clearly informed Byron while she was asleep. All those nasty, vindictive things she'd said to Valarie after she'd returned with Byron from their picnic. And I'd been there too, watching in petrified horror down the other end of the hallway as she bullied and threatened the Crowther girl, warning Valarie to keep away from Byron because her family wasn't good enough. She wasn't good enough. And then a moment later, she'd refused to support Byron when he'd admitted how much he liked Valarie... more than liked. He wanted to get to know the Crowther girl, implying that he might marry her. And Laurena efficiently manipulated Byron into letting go of Valarie to concentrate on his role as heir to the Great House.

He'd lied. Byron had blatantly lied for Valarie.

Part of me sagged with relief, and the other part gazed upon him in wonder that he would do that for the Crowther girl. Perhaps he suspected her, or maybe not. Perhaps this was the only way he could protect Valarie from Laurena's slander and put an end to it, no matter who had cut off his sister's hair. My chest filled with delightful warmth that he had done this for her. That he obviously felt something deeply for Valarie.

My heart eased its manic beat to think that the Deniauds' mansion wasn't going to be turned upside down looking for the culprit—me.

Byron offered an open hand with scuffed, bloodied knuckles to Valarie. She gifted him a grateful smile, placing her hand in his. Both of them turned away from Laurena at the same time.

Over his shoulder, Byron had one last thing to say to his youngest sister. "And what's more, Rena, you'll be finding a new place to live very shortly."

No one saw it coming.

No one but me.

I saw the snap of control. The utter primal anger that guttered humanity and all rational thought from Laurena's blue eyes and darken them to fury.

Her nostrils flared—

Slender fingers tightened on the handle of the scissors.

Her fury was directed, not at her brother, but at Valarie Crowther, who represented everything she hated.

I didn't think. I acted. I didn't consider what the consequences would be. I simply couldn't stomach any more unnecessary death. Valarie deserved to live and I couldn't, wouldn't, let her be hurt for something I had done

Laurena let out a warbled war cry, not raising the blades above her head but swinging her arm back low.

She drove the blades of the scissors forward—

Fast. Hard. Ruthless.

I threw myself in front of Valarie, my elbow catching her side and knocking her off balance.

The blades arced—

A blur of dull nickel-silver.

And then shock flashed within Laurena's gaze as if she'd been jolted awake.

It happened so fast, and yet so slowly. I only grasped fragments of what had happened. Laurena's wrathful force—

The momentum spinning me around—

Staggering forward, half buckled over—

Lurching sideways, I splayed a hand across the wall to keep myself upright.

Silence.

The hallway was cast in utter silence.

Apart from the blood rushing in my ears.

The scissor handles were plastic. I noted how nicked and worn with age they were. A dull gray color, ordinary, and it was strange it was my first thought, to wonder how many women and men had grasped the scissor's handles and used them to cut cloth, but that's what I did. I thought of the simplest thing rather than the fact the dressmaker scissors were sticking out of my stomach. I frowned—something else was happening. Something that was ruining my aunt's dress. Blood. It seeped from the wound and bled into the material, darkening the fabric further. I blinked sluggishly, trying to think of what I could do to save the dress. I could wash the blood out with soap and cold water, but my aunt would need to be clever with her needlework and stitch the frayed hole in the bodice that the blades had made.

My fingers wrapped around the handles and stilled when I noted that they were warm. They were warm because Laurena had held them in her hands. She'd gripped them like a weapon. Wielded them like blades.

Distantly, I became aware of overlapping voices...

Oh my gods... I didn't... I didn't mean to...

Get her out of here!

The servant girl... She's killed the servant girl...

The blades had gone right through my avant-garde dress, sliced through flesh, sinew, and organs. And I thought, had she? Had she killed me? It seemed as if this thing that had happened to me was happening to someone else because I didn't feel anything.

Wouldn't I know if I were dead?

Why can't I feel anything?

And then it smashed into me with the violence of a tsunami. Mind-obliterating pain cracked my thoughts apart and sundered me into nothing but an animal.

Shattered glass, crushed tiny fragments of ferocious pain, surged from the wound. It cut through my veins and nerve endings, radiating outward. It ravaged my body in a brutal flashfire of agony. My hand slid against golden paper as my knees wobbled, and my shoulder slumped against the wall.

I couldn't hear anything but the screaming inside my head, endless screaming, because everything hurt. Everything was on fire.

Torturous.

Agonizing.

Violent.

I was shredded apart from the inside with needles and blades and raw glass.

I couldn't catch my breath. I could barely stand.

My head hung low, as heavy as concrete. It seemed to take a lifetime to lift it up. When I did, blinking dazedly, everything whirling around me, I met eyes gone wide in a face that was paler than I remembered. I wasn't even sure what color his eyes were—deeply blackened violet or fathomless pitch-black, but they were soaked with terror. He was speaking to me, but I couldn't hear it above the screaming inside my head. But I knew the word, the name, as it tripped from his mouth again and again, faster and faster...Tabitha.