At first, she thought it might be her imagination. But no, it wasn’t a fleeting scent carried in from the open window like the smell from this morning. This time, it was coming from…
From inside.
A whisper of smoke seeped through the crack between her bedroom door and the threshold. Crossings noticed it too, and his expression flickered—not fear, but annoyance and confusion—as his gaze darted toward it.
“What the devil—” Crossings muttered, stepping back toward the door, his gun still trained on her. Using his other hand, he fumbled behind him in search of the doorknob.
Melanie waited, her heart pounding a wild drumbeat inside her chest, and when he turned his back to her, with his attention shifted, she seized the moment. Keeping her gaze locked on him, she shoved two of the letters into the bodice of her gown, her trembling fingers working quickly to tuck them away. The remaining bundle was noticeably lighter now, and she could only hope he wouldn’t be able to feel the difference.
Yes, she wanted to protect Reed—she would do whatever it took—but she didn’t want to die! She had a life to live, one she was only beginning to reclaim.
Crossings paused, but then glanced back at her briefly before yanking it open. The moment the door swung wide, both of them could only stare in shock.
Blistering heat and thick smoke surged into the room, and in the corridor, flames licked greedily at the far wall, devouring the wood and plaster, crawling up and across the ceiling.
“Damn Northwoods,” Crossings muttered, his voice edged with disbelief as he slammed the door shut again. The room was already growing hazy, the smoke creeping in faster now. Crossings turned back to her, indecision on his face.
Melanie stumbled back, still clutching the remaining letters. But the heat was already pressing around them like a heavy blanket. “We have to get out?—”
But then, without warning, Crossings lunged toward her, clawing for the letters. “Give them to me!” he snarled, his hand clutching at her arm. The impact sent her stumbling, her head striking the wall with a sickening thud. The breath whooshed from her lungs, and her fingers instinctively loosened, the letters slipping free. They fluttered behind her?—
Right out the open window, where the curtains billowed faintly in the breeze.
All seemed to go quiet in that moment, as both of them stared helplessly, watching those oh, so important letters flutter like butterflies on the spring air. They dipped and hovered and then dipped again, and neither Melanie nor the duke said a word as they drifted down to scatter across the street below.
Through the window, a faint sound could be heard—a shout, perhaps, or the distant clang of hooves on cobblestones, which broke the spell.
Crossings turned on her, his face twisted with rage. “You stupid, useless bitch!”
He raised the gun, and just as she turned away, her head seemed to explode in pain.
And then she was on the floor, sprawled inelegantly with her cheek pressed against the carpet.
At first, she felt nothing, just a strange but peaceful calm. Had Crossings… shot her? But no. Her temple was throbbing.
He’d struck her with the pistol.
With the smoke settling on her like a suffocating shroud, she could only watch as Crossings climbed onto the windowsill, gripping the edge of the trellis before he disappeared outside.
For an entire year, she had felt powerless. Trapped by hidden memories, the fire, her fear. But now? Now she was faced with a choice. She could stay here, hoping to be rescued—or…
She could fight.
Melanie rolled over, feeling her lungs begin to itch. Her stomach churned, and she tasted a hint of copper on her tongue.
But she was not helpless. Not anymore. And she refused to die here.
As she slowly sat up, the thick smoke stole into her lungs, making her cough violently, but she forced herself to crawl toward the window.
Windows had shielded her from the world for so long. They had provided her with a quiet refuge, a way to watch when she could not bring herself to be seen. Now this window—herwindow—was her only escape.
When her fingers found the sill, she clung to it, pulling herself up until she could see outside.
Oh…
The distance between her window and the street below was… farther than she’d remembered.
Through the haze, she saw Crossings. Clinging desperately to the trellis just a few feet below her window, his face contorted with panic. He dipped one leg, searching for a foothold, and the wooden frame groaned under his weight.
