//CLARA//
The questions wouldn't stop.
They circled my mind like vultures, picking at the bones of everything I didn't know. How had Bartholomew escaped? Who opened the door? Was it Silas Thurston? Where was Silas now?
I paced the length of my room with my velvet slippers silent against the rug. The morning light had faded hours ago, replaced by the cold, silver glow of the moon slicing through the glass.
Too many questions. Too few answers.
Casimir had left at dawn. A rider I didn't recognize had delivered an unsealed message, and within minutes, Casimir was pulling on his heavy overcoat.
"What is it?" I'd asked, catching his sleeve before he could reach the door.
"Nothing. I'll handle it."
"Casimir—"
"I said I'll handle it." He'd kissed my forehead and vanished into the fog.
That was twelve hours ago. His side of the bed was still untouched.
Knock. Knock.
"Come in."
