Chapter 67

The morning after the fire had gone cold, Beatrice rose before the bell.

Sleep had been shallow, riddled with fragmented dreams. She'd heard her name whispered against glass. Her mother's voice in the dark. The scraping of a drawer being opened, over and over again.

She didn't write anything when she woke. She simply dressed, composed, and ordered black tea instead of her usual.

When Lily entered with the tray, she said nothing at all.

There was a letter resting on the silver.

Beatrice didn't touch the tea. Not yet.

Her eyes fixed on the envelope. Heavy parchment. Deep red wax. Pressed with her family's seal.

Of course.

She reached for it, broke the seal cleanly, and unfolded the page. The handwriting was her father's.

It had always been meticulous. Angular, and impersonal.

My dear Beatrice,