Lady Vera stood rigid, one arm extended, one trembling finger leveled at the dais like an arrow drawn from its quiver where Damon had risen to deliver his eulogy.
"MURDERER! MURDERER!" Vera screamed. Her voice climbed, rising, shrill and righteous, filling every corner of the vaulted hall. "YOU KILLED YOUR OWN FATHER, YOU DEMON! YOU MURDEROUS, RUTHLESS DEMON!"
The mourners froze. Wives of ministers clutched their husbands' sleeves. Foreign diplomats exchanged glances that spoke of memorandums being drafted in real time. Nobles who had spent decades perfecting the art of looking unmoved found their masks slipping.
Damon turned to face her.
There was no startle in him. No flinch. He looked like someone who had been waiting for a storm he knew would come. He regarded Vera the way one regards a letter whose contents were already known before the seal was broken.
