A massive, decorated ice sculpture, a high swan that had been the centerpiece of the buffet, had shattered. But it hadn't fallen. Someone had driven a heavy, iron-headed cane directly into its heart.
The guests gasped, parting like a retreating tide. Standing in the center of the ruins was a woman veiled in black lace. She didn't look like a ghost, she looked like an omen.
"The dance was beautiful, Maximilian," the woman said. Her voice was thin, like parchment being torn, but it carried to every corner of the room. "But you always did have a habit of fixing broken things that don't belong to you."
The room went ice-cold. Max stepped in front of Ruby, his hand instinctively reaching for the concealed gun beneath his tuxedo jacket.
"Violet," Max breathed. The name was a curse.
