She had left the hall, but she hadn't gone far enough to miss the sounds of those people still there. Their voices were different than she had ever heard them, suddenly brighter and louder. She heard laughter. But she could not yet laugh.
The side of her face ached from where Sigvard had hit her. The blood she'd streaked across her cheek had begun to dry, an itching flake of rusty brown. Her fingers had yet to release the knife, her knife, clenched around the handle that was both slick and sticky with Sigvard's blood. She knew there were decisions to be made - both for herself and for those people she could hear. Her people. She owed it to them to be better than...
Than their last Earl. Because she was their new one. Earl.
Her back was to the door, though she knew she should guard herself, especially in such a chaotic moment of shifting change. But she simply looked down at her hand, scarlet where it held her knife. Earl. It occurred to her that her mind was foggy, not yet sharp enough to grasp what she had done and what it entailed.
She didn't hear the booted footstep until it was right at her door, and though she should have whirled, ready for attack, she only turned slowly, looking over her shoulder. The outline of the man was familiar, connected to something within her, recognition in every fiber of her body. The way he lingered, refused to come forward when he'd already pushed so far, made her frown, a subtle expression found only in the creased line between her brows. "Is this what you wanted?"