The key was still warm; that was the first thing Marguerite noticed when it lay trembling in her hand. The moment the door opened, she dropped it as though the iron itself had burned her. Now it rested on the cold stone floor between her feet, slick with something dark that gleamed in the candlelight. Blood.
Marguerite stared at it, her breath shallow, her heart beating so violently she feared it might burst from her chest. She had not meant to open the door. Not truly.
All morning, she had...