Viktor, looking at the woman and the man, spoke. His voice, carrying from the window to the garden, was calm. Cold. The 'I-have-seen-everything-and-I-do-not-care' tone that was more terrifying than any rage.
"Prepare the bath," he said. "If you both do not want to be executed."
The word 'executed' hit them like a physical blow. Meg, her knees buckling, caught herself on the rock. Dorin, his face grey, stumbled backward. The gardener, the old one-eyed man who had been watching from the corner, dropped his shears.
The pouch of gold coins, forgotten, fell from Meg's hand. It landed on the rock. The coins, spilling out, gleamed in the sunlight.
Then they glitched.
