“Is she badly hurt?” The merchant looked up to acknowledge Ethan’s passing with a nod.
Ethan slowed. He felt a prickle of apprehension, and the hair on the back of his neck stood on end.
“Don’t know.” The servant twisted to glimpse Ethan and bobbed his head. “All I know is, she was attacked. Had to be carried inside.” The men moved closer together, giving Ethan room to pass. “The mother howling and screaming in that god-awful Italian.”
Ethan stumbled. It felt like a cord had been attached to his shoulder blades, and someone had just pulled it tight. For a moment, he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. He was in France again—the roar of the crowd, the flash of the guillotine—and he couldn’t stop it. He couldn’t save them.
“Father bellowing for a doctor,” the servant went on, jolting Ethan back, “and calling for his pistols.”
No.
Ethan swung around and grasped the man by the arm. With horror, he saw the servant wore the blue-and-gold livery of Tanglewilde.
No. Not Francesca.
“What happened?” Ethan hissed. The servant tried to pull away, and Ethan found himself shaking the man. “Is Miss Dashing hurt?”
The servant half-turned to his companion, but Ethan pushed him against the shop window, pressing an arm across the man’s shoulders. “Tell me, goddamn it!”
“No,” the servant choked out. “S-she was attacked.”
“Who?” Ethan pressed the man back harder. “Which daughter?”
Don’t let it be her, he prayed.
“The elder.”
Ethan gulped for air. Not again. Not again, was all he could think.
“Miss Francesca,” the servant panted.
The cord tightened, squeezing Ethan until his whole body vibrated with tension. “Who did it?”
The servant shook his head. “I don’t know, sir.”
“Where is she now?” Black spots danced in front of Ethan’s eyes. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think for the panic and rage.
“At home, sir. At—”
The servant’s words were lost in the rush of blood in Ethan’s ears. He released the man and began to run.
