The horses died at the gate.
Not all at once. The first one buckled mid-stride, its front legs folding beneath it like paper, and the second followed half a breath later, dragging the carriage sideways across the gravel with a shriek of iron and wood that split the night open like a wound. Isadora was thrown forward into the driver's rail, her ribs slamming against the crossbar hard enough to steal every scrap of air from her lungs.
She tasted blood. Her own, this time.
The carriage tilted, groaned, and settled at a crooked angle on the cliff road, one wheel spinning lazily in the dark. Rain hammered the roof in sheets so thick it sounded like applause.
Inside, Bram was screaming.
"I am fine," Isadora gasped, though she was not fine, not remotely fine, and the word had lost all meaning somewhere between the river and this godforsaken cliff. She hauled herself upright, spat blood onto the driver's seat, and looked at the horses.
