A horrified gasp ripples through the crowd. My glass wobbles in my hand.
Antoine takes it from me and puts it down on the nearest table, whispering, “He said ‘an attempt.’ She should be alive.”
“What happened?” multiple voices ask.
The messenger gulps for air like he’s just run a marathon. “Her car was ambushed on the way here, close to the tunnel… Sniper fire. She’s been hit.”
I freeze. My brain scrambles to make sense of the words.Princess Felicia—shot?
“Kurt,” Antoine grits through his teeth.
“Isn’t he supposed to be recovering from a heart attack at some clinic?”
Antoine’s lips press into a bitter line. “It seems he recovered enough to plan an attack like this. On our soil!”
“Mount Evor is only two keys away from victory.” I search his eyes. “Is that why he resorted to such desperate measures?”
Antoine nods. “He went for the oracle. No oracle, no prophecies, no more keys.”
Oh, dear.
Gigi yells at the messenger, “Where is she now? Where’s Mother?”
“When I left, Princess Felicia was being transferred to Saint Teresa in Pombrio, along with her chauffeur.” He turns to Gigi, who’s now at his side. “They were both alive ten minutes ago when I rushed here, but…”
He hesitates.
“What?” Henri demands.
“The bullet went through her skull. It didn’t look good.”
Poor Gigi!
A graceful woman in her mid-thirties bursts from the crowd toward the messenger. “I’m the Duchess of Rohinn. You called for me. Why?”
“Your Grace.” He takes a small step back. “The sniper also shot Princess Felicia’s chauffeur, probably to make sure she didn’t survive. The chauffeur lost control of the vehicle and rammed into your husband’s car, which went over the cliff.”
The duchess’s hand flies to her mouth. “What?”
“I’m so sorry, Your Grace.”
“What about the people in the car?” Her voice trembles. “My husband? My stepson?”
Silently, the man shakes his head.
Her knees start to buckle, but she steadies herself. “Are you sure? Did you see the bodies?”
“I saw the car down in the ravine,” he replies. “No one could survive that.”
The crowd opens and a teenage girl rushes forward.
She comes to the Duchess, crying. “Is Father…? And Julian?”
The Duchess hugs her and strokes her hair, not daring to say yes.
Oh, God.
The messenger speaks again, his voice cracking with compassion. “I was instructed to call you and Princess Eugénie, but I drove here instead to tell you in person.”
