A statuesque figure stood in the Grimshaw mansion, ebony and ivory-feathered, crowned and dusted under her wings with a dusty orange and striped with black and blood red.
A velvet hood covered her eyes, and yet Iris saw.
Iris saw more than the mansion, standing proud in Shar. She saw beyond the greenhouse and its luscious gardens, beyond the stables, the trophy room, every grisly reminder her rider kept, victory over those who had wronged him.
Iris saw into each and every...