Chapter Twenty-One
“Another letter from the Hardings, Your Grace.”
Graves extended the silver tray with the careful neutrality of a man presenting a loaded pistol. The letter rested at its centre, travel-worn and water-stained, its direction smeared and overmarked with the inked impressions of its long passage—though Dominic did not require them.”
He took it.
“Thank you, Graves.”
The butler withdrew. Dominic remained alone in his study, the pale December light falling cold through the window, the letter in his hand—and for a long, motionless moment, he did nothing at all.
Simply held it. Felt the weight of it—heavier than paper ought to be, as though it carried something denser than ink and goodwill.
Open it, he told himself. It is a letter, not a loaded pistol.
But his hands knew better. His hands, trained over four years to anticipate catastrophe before his mind could name it, had already begun their treacherous tightening.
He broke the seal.