“First, you breathe. Second, you focus. Panic never mends a thing.”
Elowen’s lips curved in a strained smile. “I try, Agnes. But it is difficult to think clearly when everything feels so… uncertain.”
“Then we shall walk carefully,” Agnes said firmly. “One step at a time.”
They rounded a corner where the sun hung low, throwing long, thin shadows across the cobblestones. The city seemed quieter here; only the distant murmur of carriages disturbed the stillness. Elowen lifted her gaze to the rooftops outlinedagainst the fading light, willing her thoughts toward something ordinary, something steady.
Then—wheels.
A faint rattle at first, then louder. The sharp rhythm of hooves echoed down the street. A carriage appeared at the far end of the lane, moving with deliberate pace.
“My lady,” Agnes said suddenly, tension sharpening her voice. “That carriage—”
Before Elowen could turn, the horses jerked to a halt. The wheels scraped harshly against the stones.
Something in that sound struck through her. She turned just as Agnes’s eyes widened in alarm.
Then came the hands.
Rough, unyielding—gripping her shoulders, dragging her backward. She gasped, but before she could cry out, a cloth pressed hard against her mouth and nose. A bitter, acrid scent flooded her senses.
“Miss Tremaine!” Agnes’s shout reached her dimly, already distant beneath the pounding in her ears.
Elowen struggled, twisting against the iron hold. “Ag—Agnes—” The word was lost against the cloth. Her feet skidded on the cobbles, her heart hammering wildly.
The lamplight blurred. The street swam in and out of focus. She flailed, kicking back, her gloved hands clawing at the arm that restrained her—but the grip was immovable.
“Miss Tremaine, fight!” Agnes's voice came again, sharper and closer, but still fading as the cloth consumed her world. “Miss Tremaine!”
“Stay calm…” Elowen forced her thoughts to stabilise, to find something safe. She clung to one image: Lucas. His steady presence, the way he commanded a room, the certainty in his convictions.
He will find me.
That thought anchored her, steadying her even as her vision dimmed. She tried to move again, to call out, but the sound came weak, strangled.
The cloth shifted; the scent grew heavier. Her limbs felt foreign, her knees buckling. Through the haze, she caught a glimpse of Agnes—a blur of motion, a flash of terrified resolve—as the maid fought to reach her.
“My lady!” Agnes’s voice tore through the muffled fog, sharp and desperate.
Elowen wanted to answer, to urge her to run, to seek help—but the air had turned thick and her strength fled.
She was lifted—carried—her head lolling against a stranger’s shoulder. The world rocked with the motion of the carriage. The sound of the door, the creak of wheels, the dull thunder of hooves—all faded together.
Her thoughts narrowed to one point of light.
Lucas.
He will find me.
The darkness closed in—absolute, consuming.
***
The carriage jolted over the uneven stones of Bond Street. Lucas gripped the edge of the seat with white-knuckled hands. William sat beside him, his expression tense, his usual calm replaced by an urgent energy.
It had all happened quickly. William had returned with information. A missive had been sent urgently to Lucas’s home for William, informing him of what had happened to Elowen, and they had made all haste back to Tremaine House.
“The note gave no particulars?” Lucas asked, his voice low.
