The Empty Throne. Cayla Kluver

where I’d been finding comfort of late. And I didn’t think I could bear it if the affection and respect he held for me turned into disdain.

      Though common sense urged me to flee, my gaze remained fixed on Tom. He had pristine posture and was taller than Farrier by a few inches. Both of them wore the scarlet uniforms of the Governor’s men, though Farrier’s insignia and the hat he clutched under his arm were significant of his higher rank. A breeze picked up, and Tom’s dark hair flitted over his forehead. An urge to reach out and touch it, enjoy its softness, filled me, calling forth the memory of the kiss we had shared, how warm his body had been, how he’d moaned against my lips, how his hands had skimmed my waist, and the tingling sensation his touch had generated inside me.

      I could easily have gotten lost in my thoughts, but a snippet of conversation stole my attention. Two women were ambling away from the scene, freely speculating about what might have occurred.

      “You’ve seen the old crone what lives there. I saw her crying with my own eyes, I did. Right like she had a heart!”

      “Even an old crone is bound to grieve over a murdered son. Especially one what cared for her.”

      I was on my feet in an instant. Rushing forward, I grabbed the arm of the woman closer to me without considering how she might react. She swiveled toward me, eyes wild, looking ready to shout or scream. I released her at once, and her posture relaxed, perhaps because I was young enough to be her daughter.

      “Did you say someone was killed in that house?” I demanded, sounding a bit like an interrogator.

      The woman whose arm I had clutched nodded, her lips compressing into a thin line. “Why d’you think all those Scarlets are out in force? They take care of their own, they do.”

      “Seems someone broke into the house and done in the son,” her companion added. “Don’t know how, don’t know why, but on my word, they’ll confirm it all before the day’s out.”

      Vertigo revisited me, and I swayed on my feet. The women glanced at each other, then helped me to the bench. Having fulfilled their charitable duty, they hurried on their way, wiping their hands on their skirts as though I might be diseased.

      Forcing my breathing to slow and deepen, I tried to ward off panic with reason. The women had to be wrong. News was always distorted before facts were released, and rumors spread faster than weeds. I hadn’t caused the guard serious injury. I had scared him, yes, but he was alive and talking when I left.

      But that was before I’d sought out a needle. I racked my brain, trying to remember the rest of the night. What if I’d reentered the house under the influence of Cysur Naravni? What if I had hurt the man during the time I couldn’t remember? I vehemently shook my head. No, the idea was preposterous. And yet, the alley in which I’d awoken was in the guard’s neighborhood.

      Another terrible thought entered my head. I had spitefully left the guard tied. What if he had struggled to free himself and tipped over the chair? Could the sash have tightened enough to choke him? Had his mother returned too late to give him aid?

      The bell tolled the half hour, and I again looked across the street. A group of Constabularies had just emerged from the house carrying a stretcher upon which was strapped a black-covered form the approximate shape and size of the guard I’d attacked. Remorse hit me like a lightning strike—there was no longer a chance the women were wrong about the man’s fate. A wave of trembling rolled through me, and I stared at my hands. Was there blood on them?

      Unable to bear the sight of the guard’s corpse being hauled out of the home, I bolted.