The Knife and the Masquerade

The seventh of August broke cold and tense. Thomas was already at the breakfast table when the others came down — still in last night’s uniform, collar undone, a near-empty bottle beside him, cleaning his pistols with the focus of a man who had not slept and did not mean to. Beyond the window, for the first time since their arrival, the fountain bench stood empty: the brown-coated watcher was gone. There was no time to dwell on it. At seven the party rode to Palais Modena, where Lady Honoria…