The morning after the Midwinter party, you wake up sprawled across the bed, still wearing most of the clothes you came home in. You remember staggering in near dawn and dragging a blanket over yourself. Then troubled dreams, in which a black cloud of ravens descended on the theater and tore its seats and scenery to pieces.
Now in the thin light of midmorning, the events of the previous night come crashing back. Ezren's death. You can't help feeling that there must have been some way of preventing it. Cenone's attempts to bring the evening back under control. Falathar's arrest. And the knowledge that Salar seems up to his eyebrows in the entire mess.