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I spun and more hit me.
Blood.
Everyone in the room was vomiting blood.
I tried to back away and slipped on it.
Fell.
It was all over the stone. I couldn’t get my hands under me. I kept falling into the blood.
I felt a presence loom over me.
I looked up.
It was Rose.
She was burning.
“Broken,” she said, smiling as her skin blistered, blackened, fell away. She reached toward me. “Be broken with me.”
I shot up in bed, then shot out of it.
Bare feet hitting the floor, I ran to the door, threw it open, dashed out, down the hall, around the landing, to Ian’s room.
I pounded, loudly, frantically, then pulled the door open.
The light switched on just as I ran into his sitting room.
I stumbled clumsily to a halt and looked left.
He’d thrown off the covers and was angling out of bed but stopped when he caught sight of me, his expression freezing.
“Daphne?”
“Do you put bouquets of flowers on guests’ beds?”
“What?”
“Do you put bouquets of flowers on guests’ beds!” I screamed.
He moved quickly to me—pajama bottoms, drawstring, navy…bare chest, wide, great chest hair, all over, even on his flat, boxed belly.
I backed away.
He stopped.
“Come here, love,” he coaxed gently, holding a hand to me.
“Do you? Answer me,” I demanded.
“I don’t know,” he said, dropping his hand.
“How did Rose die?”
“Rose?”
“The one who poisoned her fiancé, her family.”
