Mia watched Ford's face. It was dark, but thankfully uninjured. She squeezed his hand, and his shoulders relaxed a little. He had been unflinchingly glaring at Denholm.
His… brother? Cousin?
She wanted to tell him blood didn't matter. Love mattered.
The two of them mattered.
Denholm could rot in the wights' dungeon for all she cared!
Trace had turned to concentrate on the Emperor, whose restlessness had grown. Perhaps because of the all-out brawl that had taken place at the edges of his bed.
Thankfully, the four-poster canopied monstrosity of a piece of furniture was the equivalent of a king-sized bed, even for the enormous Emperor.
That meant they could keep their distance from him… to a point.
Mia almost wanted to descend and wait underneath it, but she didn't dare. Ford's volatile emotions rolled off him almost palpably, and she wanted to stay close to steady him.
