Through the fear, she sensed a faint but unmistakable tingle of sheepishness.

“Right, then.” She glanced downward once more, fingers grasping reflexively at the wooden beam.

“I'm going down there,” she decided suddenly. She didn't much care for the Guard; hated them, actually. But after what she'd witnessed, she was willing to break down and cry on any shoulder, even if it sported the silver fleur-de-lis, or the stern visage that was both the face and the symbol of Demas.

A spike of terror, one that came from the other rather than from her own soul, rooted her in place. An involuntary cry escaped her lips.

One of the Guardsmen craned his neck upward, seeking uselessly to penetrate the shadows that clung to the ceiling in the lantern-light. Pushing back the brim of his plumed hat, he shook his head irritably. These new oil lamps were better than torches, but you still couldn't bloody well see a damn thing when you needed to.

When the sound failed to repeat itself, he shrugged and, with a muttered, “Rats, I suppose,” resumed his grisly work.

“Now see what you almost did!” the girl hissed at her unseen companion, slowly edging her way across the beam. “When we get out of this, we're going to have a serious talk as to who's in charge here. I-”

“Sergeant!” The voice reverberated from below. The rafter-borne figure tilted her head, gazing down at the young constable who'd identified the body of Robert Vereaux.

You think this is horrible now, she thought at them bitterly, blinking back tears. Where were you while I watched it happen?!

A swell of sympathy and understanding washed over her from the unseen presence.

“Oh, shut up,” she snapped quietly.

“What is it, Constable?” This, weary-voiced, came from the older Guardsman.

“Sir,” the young man replied, “I've found a loose stone in the wall here. There's a lever of some sort hidden behind it.”