"So, Lord Whitmore," Heena said, in the pleasant tone people used when ordering tea or executions, "what do you think of the little lesson we've just been reviewing? About your daughter's understanding of—what shall we call it—basic conduct?"
The question hung in the air like a blade suspended point‑down.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Seraphina could *hear* her own heartbeat; it felt too loud, too clumsy for the room, as if it might give her away by sheer volume. She had the odd, detached sensation that she was both standing inside her own body and watching from somewhere just outside her shoulder, observing the scene with the awful clarity that comes when there are no more excuses left to reach for.
Her father's throat worked.
