Beatrice has been brought home with the physicians attending to her. Mrs Alma and the maids have been frantically busy, bringing materials the physicians requested for.
Meanwhile, downstairs, the drawing room felt like an execution chamber.
The large stone fireplace was unlit. The air inside the room was completely cold. The only light came from a few thick wax candles sitting on the large wooden table in the center of the room. The shadows stretched long and dark against the walls.
Derek sat alone in a high-backed leather chair. He was silent. He held his longsword across his lap. In his right hand, he held a small piece of soft white cloth and a small bottle of weapon oil. He was cleaning his sword.
He moved his hand in slow, steady circles. He rubbed the oil into the cold steel. He did not rush. He polished the metal until it shined perfectly in the candlelight. His face was a mask of absolute stone. He showed no emotion, but a deadly storm was raging inside his chest.
