drawing her ever deeper into the labyrinth. Sobs filled her throat, choking off her cries for help. And still she would run; she knew that stopping meant certain death.
A hand touched her shoulder. She whirled toward it, arms rising. The haze lifted from her eyes, and she saw the face of her father's brother looking down at her. Concern creased the skin around his eyes.
"Are you still with us?" he asked, his voice quiet.
Victoria felt a hot rush of blood burn her cheeks. She nodded, lowering her eyes to the dusty floor. Her hands trembled. She forced them to be still and turned back toward the lanterns. The shadows still frolicked in their mischievous dance, but they no longer hid the monsters that haunted her dreams.
The pallbearers lowered her father's coffin into the sarcophagus. Echoes filled the small space as they slid the stone lid into place. Two lions, standing on their hind legs and grasping a sword hilt between their forepaws, adorned the heavy slab. The Dawes family crest. It was supposed to be her heritage and her pride, but she'd never felt much like a lion. A fox, sometimes, when she had done something clever, but never a lion.
The crypt grew colder as the men paid their final respects and left one by one. Soon, Victoria stood alone before the beautiful stone boxes. The lantern-bearers stood in the doorway, throwing shadows and light across the relief carvings in the walls. Victoria laid a hand on each sarcophagus, feeling their chill through her thin black gloves. Letting herself return to that night and its harrowing memories, she called to mind an image of the black dogs. She willed herself to stare into their glowing eyes. Rage flowed through her like liquid fire, and she let it spread, filling every fiber of her being. Her eyes glittered like distant stars.
"Father." Her voice was dark and hard like the granite walls around her. "Mother." She drew herself to her full height. "I'm sorry I failed you. I know it can't help you now, but I vow to you that I will hunt down those beasts. I will hunt them to the ends of the earth and back, and I will kill them. I know I may not have been the daughter you wished for, but I will make you proud in this. No matter the cost, no matter the distance, I will give you justice."
TWO
Victoria felt the curious eyes of the fellows all around her as she stood beside the coach. Aspiring scholars in flowing robes strode along the paved avenues in groups of two and three, oblivious to the grandeur of the buildings around them. Their conversations gave way to mute stares when they caught sight of her. Although Oxford had just established their first women's college, she imagined it had been a good while since many of the students here had seen a young woman of marriageable age without an escort. Stray strands of hair peeked out from beneath her hat, gleaming like gilded steel in the sunlight and catching the golden thread woven into the bodice of her dress.
She straightened her back and allowed her bosom to thrust forward a little. Might as well give these poor shutin schoolboys something to remember. Her mother had been a shapely woman, and Victoria had inherited her good fortune. Combined with her father's piercing blue eyes, she'd stolen many a young man's heart since growing into womanhood. She found it quite tiresome at times, waiting for a smitten messenger boy to deliver his message or seeing round, gawking eyes follow her from doorways and carriage windows. Still, she couldn't resist the modest flaunting of her charms from time to time.
Today, however, she couldn't linger to tease passing students. Pulling a slip of paper from a coin purse tucked in her bodice, she compared the name written on it to the building in front of her. Blackfriars Hall. This was where she was supposed to meet him.
Victoria approached the front entrance with an air of caution. Unlike the other buildings that comprised the various colleges at Oxford University, Blackfriars Hall was a squat, simple construction that had fallen into some disrepair. Two rows of windows stared gloomily out across St. Giles, and a third above them was nearly lost in the sloping roof. It boasted no sweeping arches or towering spires, and even its front doors were plainly carved. It seemed a poor choice for the professional edifice of such a renowned