Berith didn't remember what song had started next.
The music had become meaningless. Background noise to the sharp, narrowing focus settling behind his eyes.
He stood at the edge of the ballroom floor, hand still curled with phantom heat where he had last touched Marcella's back. She had been wrapped in his cloak—guarded, silent, but whole.
His shoulders stiffened. Where is Marcella?
Berith scanned the crowd, expecting to catch a glimpse of her silver hair near the refreshments. Perhaps she had slipped away with Rachel and Anthony. But there—near the veranda?
Empty.
No trace of her, no hint of trailing velvet, no glint of silver.
It had been too long. If Marcella had gone to the washroom, she would have been back by now. Something is wrong.
Berith's gaze narrowed. She was just here.
