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“What’s happening?” I ask numbly.

“I . . . he . . .” Garnet looks confused, as if the scene before him doesn’t make any sense. “Will you help me carry him inside?”

The ballroom is empty. Broken glass, puddles of wine, and overturned food platters litter the parquet floor. We lay the Duke out by the doors. I grab a clean linen tablecloth and drape it over him.

“Thanks,” Garnet says, but there’s no emotion behind the word. “I think a footman got shot as well.”

We find the footman slumped over a shrub. He is young, with copper skin and a large nose. I’m pretty sure his name was George. Garnet and I carry him inside to lay him out beside the Duke. Maids and footmen have begun to tentatively inch back into the ballroom.

“Start cleaning this up,” Garnet says. I’ve never heard him sound so commanding. He looks like he’s aged ten years tonight.

“Garnet—” But before I can continue, there is a commotion in the hall and then we hear a voice cry, “For the Exetor’s sake, Five, it’s me, let me through!”

A few seconds later, Dr. Blythe hurries through the ballroom door. He stops short and gasps at the scene before him. He hasn’t changed a bit—though maybe there are a few more streaks of gray in his thick black hair. His green eyes grow sad as he lifts the corner of the tablecloth covering the Duke.

“Where is your mother?” he asks, looking up at Garnet, who points out to the garden.

Dr. Blythe hurries off, and I hear a wail, followed by, “Cora, attend to Cora, you idiot!”

A second later, he’s back and out the door. I realize someone’s missing.

“Garnet,” I say quietly. “Where’s Coral?”

Garnet blinks and looks around. “I don’t know.” He stares blankly out the door for a second, then says, “I’m . . . I’ll be back.”

He wanders out of the ballroom like a man in a trance.

I head out into the halls, searching for Coral. After a few minutes, I find her crying on one of the smaller staircases. I sit down and wrap my arms around her as she falls into my chest.

“Oh, Imogen,” she sobs.

“Shhh,” I say automatically, holding her tight as much for my own sake as for hers. Hazel nearly died tonight. I was right there and powerless to stop it. I came here to keep her safe and I failed. If Cora hadn’t . . . I squeeze my eyes shut because I can’t think about that.

I finally get Coral up to bed and settled. Then I walk in a daze back down the stairs and through the halls, not caring about using the servants’ tunnels. I pass the ballroom, where Mary and the other maids are cleaning the floors, while footmen pick up the shattered bottles and broken tables. I should join them. I should help. But my feet keep moving.

As I walk past the Duke’s smoking room, I hear a quiet noise, like a sob. The door is slightly ajar and I peek in and see Garnet, sitting in an armchair, head in his hands.

I don’t know what to do. I’m about to turn and leave when he looks up.

“Oh,” he says, quickly rubbing the tears from his cheeks.

“Are you all right?” I ask, slipping inside and shutting the door behind me. It’s a stupid question. Of course he’s not. “Do . . . do you know what that was? I mean, was it planned? Was it a Society action?”

“No,” Garnet says grimly. “Definitely not.”

“Then—”

“I don’t know, Violet.” His tone is sharp and he seems to realize it. He sighs and leans back in the chair. “I hate it in here,” he says. “Always have. Stinks. I never understood why my father liked cigars so much.” His voice cracks the tiniest bit on the word father.

I perch myself on the edge of a leather-covered ottoman. “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

Garnet’s face grows red and he looks away. “I didn’t even like him all that much,” he says. “He was so embarrassing. Boring. Always drunk. But I didn’t . . . I didn’t want him to . . .” He rubs at his eyes again.

“When my father died, I felt so guilty,” I say quietly, keeping my gaze focused on a crystal ashtray. “I thought I should have been able to do something, I thought . . .” I clear my throat. Talking to Hazel about this is one thing—it’s hard for me to share these memories with someone else. But Garnet needs this right now. “Then I got angry. Which only made me feel more guilty.”

“I don’t feel guilty,” Garnet snaps.

I pause. “Don’t you?”