I worked quickly, combining elements with careful attention, adjusting the mixture until its consistency was perfect—potent enough to numb the most hardened man.
I was ready when the evening unfurled its dark cloak over the estate.
I moved like a wraith through the halls, invisible, unheard, the vials tucked carefully within the folds of my dress.
The smoking parlor awaited.
And so did the brandy bottle.
An unwitting accomplice to my silent rebellion.
With sure hands, I uncorked the decanter, pouring the clear liquid into the amber spirits, watching as my betrayal dissolved seamlessly into the depths.
A part of me marveled at the ease of it.
Another part quaked at the implications.
Retreating to the front parlor, I picked up my embroidery hoop, the delicate fabric stretched taut beneath my trembling fingers.The needle moved in and out—a mindless, rhythmic dance that belied the chaos within me.
Yet, my focus lay elsewhere.
Every sense was attuned to the sounds beyond the room, my pulse counting the moments until Lord Winston’s arrival.
And then—the doorbell tolled.
Deep.Ominous.
A knell rang out through the hollow silence of the house.
I forced myself to remain seated, my hands never ceasing their work, though the stitches grew erratic with anticipation.
Through the veil of my lashes, I watched the maid scurry past, her footsteps swift as she hurried toward the grand entrance.
Now.
I slid from the parlor, melting into the dimly lit hallway.The silk of my skirts barely whispered against the polished floors as I pressed myself into the shadows.
Then—his footsteps.
Heavy.Ponderous.
Each step echoed through the hushed halls, a dreadful cadence of power and arrogance.
Lord Winston had arrived.
“Ah, Thomas,” his low, crawling voice slithered through the air.“Let us retire to your esteemed smoking room.”
My father’s response was a murmur, indistinct, but their footsteps soon merged as they moved down the corridor.I did not need to see them to know what would follow.
I could envision the two of them settling into the leather chairs, brandy in hand, to discuss the ruin of lives.
Unaware that swift and unforgiving sleep was already curling its fingers around their throats.
I did not breathe.
I did not move.
I slipped away only after their footsteps faded, quick and quiet, no more than a shadow swallowed by the night.
