The rain had not stopped since dusk.
It fell in sheets, muffling the sound of the world — carriages rolling through puddles, boots striking cobblestone, whispers slipping through the damp night.
Windsor's air was heavy, restless, as if the city itself waited for something to break.
Serena Maxwell stood by the lamplight of the old square, her gloved hands clasped before her chest.
Midnight.
The letter had said the carriage that doesn't stop.
She had almost thrown it into the fire.
Almost told Emily.
Almost convinced herself that she was done answering Christopher's summons.
But she had come anyway.
Because she had to see — had to know if what she read in those few deliberate lines meant what she feared: that he was back, not in ruin, but in control again.
Her heart raced as each passing carriage rattled by, slowing just enough to make her breath hitch — then speeding away into the fog.
