Evelyn: Stop right where you are!

Clara spun around, blowing out the taper instantly.

Darkness flooded the room, punctuated only by flashes of lightning illuminating the rain-streaked windows. She held her breath, pressing herself against the bookshelf.

A shadow moved in the doorway of the study—tall, rigid, and silent.

"I know you are in here, Clara."

Evelyn’s voice came through the dark, devoid of anger, coated only in a terrifying, calculated amusement.

"You think you are being clever," Evelyn continued, the sound of her silk robe rustling as she took a slow step forward. "Sneaking through the house like a thief in the night. But you have forgotten whose house this is. Every servant, every floorboard, every key answers to me."

Clara did not move. Her fingers gripped the leather portfolio tightly against her chest.

"Give me the papers, Clara, and perhaps I will allow Marcus to divorce you quietly," Evelyn offered, her tone almost maternal in its wicked condescension. "A modest settlement. A cottage somewhere far away where no one knows your name. But if you persist in this farce, I will destroy you so thoroughly that Marcus will curse the day he ever looked at you."

"You are a monster," Clara whispered into the darkness. "He is your son. He would give his life for you, and you are robbing him blind."

"He is weak!" Evelyn snapped, losing her composure for a fraction of a second before reigning it back in. "Like his father! If I left this estate to him, we would be paupers within a decade! I am the only one capable of preserving the Vance legacy!"

Lightning struck nearby, illuminating the room in brilliant, stark white.

In that split second of light, Clara saw Evelyn lunging toward her, hands outstretched to snatch the portfolio.

Clara dodged sideways, knocking over a silver side table. A porcelain vase shattered across the parquet floor with an explosive crash.

"Stop her!" Evelyn shrieked, no longer hiding her voice. "Thief! Housebreaker!"

Clara bolted through the French doors into the conservatory, the shards of glass crunching beneath her shoes. She burst out onto the colonnade, cold rain instantly soaking through her wool dress, plastering her hair to her face.

Behind her, bells were already ringing throughout the manor. Lights were flickering awake in the upper windows.

She had to get out. She had to reach the village magistrate or the family’s trusted London solicitor before Evelyn could intercept her. Marcus had to see the papers, but if Evelyn reached him first, Clara would never be allowed to speak.