The bells of Saint Aurelia tolled like a slow, stubborn heartbeat, refusing to let the city forget that someone important had died. From the steps of the cathedral, Leona Whitford watched the carriages pulling away one by one, their wheels hissing over the wet cobblestones. The sky over Ravenna hung low and heavy, tinted the color of lead, and the air smelled of rain and coal smoke. Perfect weather for burying someone, she thought. The kingdom itself looked properly miserable. Shadows moved behind her, black coats and black veils drifting past in little knots of condolence and curiosity. A few of the older earls bowed to her, some out of respect, some because they were already calculating whether a widowed countess’s daughter might be desperate enough to marry beneath her station. Leona tilted her head just enough to give them the expression they expected: calm, polite grief. “I’m so terribly sorry, Lady Leona,” murmured Lord Ashbourne, his gloved hand briefly touching the brim of his hat. His face was the color of unbaked dough, his eyes sharp as pins. “First your father and brother, and now…” “My mother,” Leona supplied, saving him the trouble of pretending he’d forgotten who occupied today’s casket. “And now your mother,” he repeated smoothly. “Cruel fate. The Whitford line was always… unlucky with their hearts.” The word stuck in Leona’s mind like a splinter. Hearts. “Thank you for coming, my lord,” she said, voice steady. “My family appreciated your friendship