The knock was soft. Too soft.

Anthea looked up from her mirror, her comb pausing mid-stroke. She had dismissed her maid for the night, ordered wine, and locked her door. No one should be calling.

She stood up carefully, her silk gown dragging against the rug, and crossed to the door. A folded scrap of parchment slid underneath, curling like a secret.

She had known the hand the moment she saw it. Calder’s script was sharp, quick, and impatient. The message was short, almost nothing at all, yet ...