“No,” he said. “No. It’s not possible. It’s not—” He gathered up her hair, twisting it gently off her neck, revealing alabaster white skin and a striking tattoo: a grid like that used to play noughts and crosses, but set at an angle with three letters beneath it. “Ceyden, my dear girl. No,” he cried out, his voice sharp with pain.

He gingerly turned over the body and studied the girl’s face, her deep blue eyes staring blankly at the night sky, a thin purple bruise spanning her throat. All emotion fell from his face, wrinkles smoothed, his skin blanched, as he cradled her lifeless head in his arms.

His voice broke and shattered. “She is the daughter who was stolen from me twenty years ago.”

Sir Richard’s response to this horrific scene scared me. He raged at those around him, unwilling to let anyone touch his daughter. Despite his thin frame, he pushed off the guards, who stood, awkward, casting uncertain glances at the growing crowd in the courtyard. Colin was speaking to the man in charge, and nearly everyone who’d been in the theater was now pushing into the garden, agitated murmurs and whispers dull replacements for the soothing sound of the fountain. A man in evening dress, his tie askew, hair rumpled, stepped forward and crossed to the largest of the guards.

“May I offer any assistance? I am an old friend.” He faced Sir Richard, taking him by the shoulders and giving a soft shake. “I know your pain all too well. Lashing out will not help right now.”

“How could I have so failed her?” Sir Richard said, shrugging him off and turning back to his daughter. He stood only for a moment before he collapsed, sobbing, over her body. I knelt beside him, knowing there were no words that could offer meaningful comfort. The guards began to clear out the area, demanding that everyone save the grieving father leave. I asked if I could stay with him, as did his friend—who introduced himself to me.