Olivia clutched Throckmorton face-forward in her clammy hands and trailed Bailey up the servants’ staircase to the rear entrance to the ballroom.
The back door was wide open.
At the threshold she froze. She drew her breath in sharply.
Annaliese sat cross-legged and alone on the ballroom floor. Drawn and pale, she held a needle and thread in her hand. A sock monkey without a costume lay across her lap.
Wearing her favorite nightgown, Annaliese looked like a little blue boat of hope floating in a sea strewn with injured sock monkeys.
Wreckage was everywhere: puffs of discarded stuffing; red felt hearts, flat and empty; pieces of cast-off costumes; arms, arms, and more arms.
Curses, curses, infinite curses on the rogue who perpetrated this crime!
Throckmorton raged at the injustice.
And yet, a strange sensation swept over him at the same time. Instead of feeling relieved that he’d been spared, he felt guilty that he’d survived.