Mary Conler writes first
The balcony is dark and blissfully quiet after the ballroom. The young lady who slips out to meet you is unmistakable: lustrous black hair, eyes like the night sky, and the sharp, upturned cat eyes everyone in the capital swears are glaring. She isn’t glaring. She is checking that the door is shut.
“You came. Good.” Her voice drops along with her posture, from Grand Duke’s daughter to someone counting coins. “I’ll be quick. My brothers can find me anywhere in about four minutes.”
She pulls a folded paper from her glove: a neat column of numbers.
“My savings, my shares, and what I can sell without anyone noticing. I need a quiet house abroad. Somewhere warm, nowhere near Nicor.” She frowns slightly. “And it only needs to fit one person. Just one.”
Behind the door, faintly, a man’s voice calls her name. She winces.
“Can you do it? Please say yes before the prince finds us.”
