The Thompson estate was draped in the heavy silence of the night. Torches flickered in the corridors, casting long, dancing shadows on the stone walls, but the west wing was particularly quiet. It was the silence of held breath.
Inside the bedchamber of the Second Master, the air was thick with the scent of dried lavender.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The sound was sharp and urgent, rattling the door.
"My Lady!"
It was Myra, Ashlyn's maid. Her voice was pitched high with panic, muffled by the wood.
Ashlyn, who had been sitting by the fire, staring into the flames, stood up abruptly. She crossed the room, her silk slippers making no sound on the thick rug. She unlocked the door and pulled it open.
Myra stood there, wringing her hands, her face pale in the torchlight.
"Bad news, My Lady," Myra gasped, looking over her shoulder as if she expected demons to be chasing her.
"What is wrong?" Ashlyn asked, her brow furrowing. "Did something happen in the estate?"
