The air grew heavier with the combined scent of coal smoke, forced lilies, and hot buttered toast. The dining room was suffocating, and Mr. Finch already sat rigidly at the head of the mahogany table, his newspaper—the Times—folded beside a china plate. He did not look up, but the moment Ezra's skirt brushed the doorway, his disapproval was palpable.
"You were precisely two minutes late, Ezra," he stated, his voice clipped and dry as old parchment. "Punctuality is a virtue the Duke values highly. Sit. He should be here momentarily."
Ezra took her place. The clock on the mantel ticked with brutal clarity, measuring the dwindling seconds until the Duke's expected carriage arrived.
The clock struck the half-hour. The Duke was late.
Mr. Finch checked his gold pocket watch, then glanced sharply toward the drawing-room door. "He should have arrived precisely now. This is unacceptable indolence, even for a peer."
Before he could elaborate on the Duke's rudeness, a frantic rattling sounded from the back stairs. Mary, the maid, burst into the dining room, her apron smeared with coal dust. She did not curtsy, her usual composure utterly fractured.
"Master! Master Finch, a rider!" Mary gasped, clutching the doorframe. "It is the Duke's messenger. He is demanding immediate audience!"
Mr. Finch shot up from his chair, his face instantly draining of colour. A messenger meant a formal alteration, a potential setback. Only ill news arrived so hastily.
"Show him in immediately, you fool! And return to the kitchen!" he hissed.
A moment later, a man in the Duke's scorched-red livery strode into the room, covered in sweat and road grime. He ignored Ezra completely, his eyes locked on her father.
"Mr. Finch," the messenger announced, his voice tight with controlled alarm. "My Lord, the Duke of Atherton, sends his deepest apologies. The journey has been—" He paused, seemingly struggling for a respectable word. "—Terminated. The wedding is indefinitely postponed."
"Terminated? Postponed?" Mr. Finch's voice cracked. He snatched a napkin from the table, crushing it in his fist. "By what accident? A wheel? A lame horse? Speak plainly, man!"
The messenger swallowed hard. "There was no accident, sir. There was... an impossibility. The road was impassable. A chasm, wide and bottomless, and a Fire that burned without smoke or heat. My Lord said it was the strongest of warnings, aimed not at him, but at... at the source of his security."
Ezra felt a sudden, exhilarating rush of cold air break through the stifling heat of the room. A chasm, a mysterious fire, a warning aimed at the very top of the King's political structure. She looked at her father, whose face was now a sickly, desperate grey.
Valerian. The unspoken name vibrated through the room, answering the mystery before the messenger could utter another word.
"Pack everything, Ezra," Mr. Finch whispered, his eyes wide and vacant as he stared at the dining room floor, no longer seeing his polished furniture but the abyss that had swallowed the road. "We leave Rosewood Lane. Now. Before the Prime Nexus comes to collect his claim in person."