Sylvia's heartbeat was steady, too steady, as though her body had already accepted what her mind refused to admit. This was the rational thing to do. This was her duty.
In the evening light, with smoke rising from the upper halls, the mistress of the mansion would take the secret passage that led to the stables; that was the usual procedure in the noble households and that was what they would expect for them to do. The real Lorraine would have escaped through another route. Sylvia was the decoy, the bait.
The bell tolled again, its desperate echo cutting through the crackle of flames and the chaos outside. She could hear the screams from the ballroom, the clash of steel, the cries of dying men, the pleading voices of servants who had once laughed in these very halls. Fire danced up the grand staircase, and the rich velvet curtains curled into black ribbons.
