The great clock in the main hall of the Thompson estate struck three in the morning. The sound was a heavy, mournful chime in the absolute, deathly stillness of the house.
From a side door, a figure shrouded in a dark, heavy cloak emerged, moving with a frantic, stumbling haste. It was Lorena.
Her face, illuminated for a second by a sliver of moonlight, was a mask of terror. Her eyes were wide and tear-stained, her hair a wild, undone mess.
She ran down the servants' steps, her cloak catching on the stones, her breath coming in ragged, painful sobs. She found the stable boy she had woken with a handful of coins and a desperate, whispered order. "The carriage," she hissed, her voice cracking. "Is it ready? It must be discreet!"
