A noise sounded nearby, outside the tower. He put a finger to his lips, listening. Someone was about. One more caress of her rounded cheek, a trace of the freckles there, and he released her for the last time, sending away from himself the only light that had warmed his days in a long time. “Harford’s guest cabin is just south of the main house. Follow the path, and you’ll find it. I’m certain he’ll help you.” He pointed her toward the rope ladder hanging down to the yard below, held out her velvet cloak that he’d laid on the bench beforehand. He allowed himself a final lingering look. Oh, how her eyes sparkled. “Don’t be afraid of the dark.”

She smiled, laying her hand over her hidden pocket where she’d slipped the candles. Then she spun toward the open window with a swirl of lush fabric and was gone, taking the warm glow of their evening with her.

36

Your internal rhythm will shift to match the song of your surroundings—unless the beat of your heart is strong enough to change your atmosphere instead.

~Vivienne Mourdant

I dropped to the ground from the last rung and walked into glorious, starry liberty, feeling the earthquake that shook Paul’s jail occurring inside me, sensing the stones tumbling down around me. I walked out over the rubble to freedom. I was lightweight, as if tumbling down the sunny flower-strewn slopes of a meadow. I took three steps and looked up, up into the star-freckled sky, arms out and laughing as I spun a slow circle.

I was free. Could it be true? Giddy, I kicked the fluffy snow at my feet and laughed again. When had it begun to snow?

Then I froze at the sight of a lamp glowing in the building. That would be the end of the wards, wouldn’t it? Chronic ward, third floor. A door opened and banged shut somewhere in the echoey night. Footfall sounded, and it wasn’t far off.

Opportunity narrowing, I hoisted my gown and sprinted through the falling snow. I ran until my chest hurt and my legs tingled. Freedom was close. Freedom, and finding help for Bridget.

As Hurstwell grew smaller, I could see the tall iron fence in the far distance around the property, dark against the whiteness. I turned to the right and found a path, snow-dusted and bordered by stone. My eyes caught sight of the beautiful glow of candlelight in the windows of a cottage, and I made a hard pivot and stumbled toward it. I sidled along the wall and peered in through the frosted panes to be certain. There before the hearth sat Frederick Harford dressed in black, rocking in the firelight.