Page 70 of A Shadow Amongst the Roses

Her fingers tightened slightly on the paper.

If it was a warning, it was delivered with careful neutrality.

If it was a trap, it was designed by someone who understood pressure.

Her mind sorted possibilities with practiced efficiency:

Margaret—no.

Eleanor—too direct

Ashwood—too coarse, too self-serving

Nathaniel—never without context.

The Thornhaven steward—possible.

Someone else entirely.

A draft stirred the papers on the desk, though no window was open. Eliza steadied the letter. The house seemed to hold its breath.

She folded the paper once, sharply. Wax crumbs scattered across the polished wood.

She would not indulge in panic. It was not in her nature.

Instead, she noted what she must not do:

She must not tell Ashwood.

She must not show uncertainty.

She must not let the household sense even a ripple of disturbance.

And she knew what she could not do:

She could not tell Thomas.

Not when he had just ridden out with genuine responsibilities.

Not when she had no proof, only implication.

The thought carried an ache she did not welcome. She disliked keeping anything from Thomas. He had become a steady point in a shifting landscape.

But involving him without cause would place him in danger. And danger was a currency she spent lightly.

She slipped the letter into her sleeve, into the inner lining where it lay hidden and close.

Her decision was neither reckless nor impulsive.

It was deliberate.

Tomorrow at noon, she would go to the gallery off the west corridor. Alone.

Not because the letter demanded it. But because she sensed something in its tone, something precise and intentional, suggested the truth would not reveal itself in any other way.

Eliza lifted her chin. Then she crossed the room, her steps soft on the floorboards. The house watched her go, the shadows settling in behind her like an attentive escort.

She did not flinch.