Rosamund
Fanny and I burst into the corridor like two women fleeing a burning building, which, considering the circumstances, wasn't far from the truth.
We stood there gasping, Fanny clutching the candle she'd somehow managed not to drop, her face chalk-white, her free hand gripping my arm hard enough to leave marks. The corridor was dim and cold and blissfully free of dark veins climbing its walls.
As we stood there, I heard hurried footsteps coming from the direction of the west staircase.
Nevan appeared around the corner. He was in his night clothes, his shirt loosened at the collar, his mask in place, as though he hadn't attempted sleep at all. His gaze moved from Fanny's stricken face to mine, then past us to the closed door of my bedroom. He didn't ask what happened. He crossed to the door, opened it an inch, and looked inside.
Then closed it again, quietly.
"Fanny." His voice was calm. "Mrs Harlow will take you to the quarters the servants have prepared. Go with her."
