The words chilled Neva to the marrow. Her feigned smile faltered, her chest constricting. The terrier whined softly, nudging her hand as though testing her balance. Before Neva could even formulate a reply, the heavy iron door to the washhouse rattled, then slammed open with a jarring thud. Two hulking figures in dark, unbadged uniforms burst in, their faces grim, their eyes fixed solely on Neva.
“There she is!” one of them barked, his voice rough as granite. “The Master wants her in the lower cells, immediately.”
Neva didn’t recognize their livery; these weren’t the estate's usual watchmen. Their movements were too swift, too brutal. Cressa’s hired muscle. They lunged forward, closing the distance in a few swift strides. The little terrier gave a sharp, spitting yap, plant-legged before her skirts.
“No!” Bria shrieked, her earlier fear stiffening into raw ferocity. “You won’t touch her!”
She didn’t hesitate. With a guttural cry, Bria spun towards the wall of gleaming copper pipes and massive, roaring steam valves that powered the manor’s industrial-sized presses. Her small frame strained as she wrenched a heavy, rusted lever. A deafening hiss erupted, followed by a violent shudder that vibrated through the stone floor. One valve, then another, burst open with an ear-splitting shriek, unleashing a torrent of high-pressure, scalding vapor. The washhouse became a roar of blinding white mist and searing heat.
The intruders recoiled, shouting in alarm as the scalding vapor billowed around them, scalding exposed skin. Neva snatched the volume from Bria’s grasp, clutching it tight against her ribs. The heat was immense, stinging her eyes, making it difficult to draw a clean breath. Barnaby yelped, skittering sideways through the blinding vapor.
“Neva! The chute!” Bria’s voice cut through the din, strained and urgent. “Go! I’ll hold them!”
Neva could barely see Bria through the roiling steam, only a vague shape wrestling with a guard. Her friend, her loyal, brave Bria, was putting herself in mortal danger. Neva’s heart lurched. She couldn’t leave her, but staying meant capture, and the ledger would be lost. She had to protect the evidence.
“Stay with Bria!” Neva ordered, her voice cracking. The dog darted back toward Bria’s fading form in the mist. “I’ll come back for you both!”
Turning, Neva scrambled toward the iron-grated drop chute that rose in the far wall, built for soiled linens from the upper floors. The air in the room grew denser, hotter, the acrid scent of ozone mixing with damp fabric. She snatched a handful of soaking wet, heavy linen sheets from a nearby cart, wrapping them clumsily around the leather binding to shield the ink from the damp.
The steam made the metal floor treacherous, slick with condensation. Neva slipped, her knee scraping painfully against the grate of a drain. One of the brutes, a hulking shadow, lunged through a momentary gap in the mist, fingers snatching at her. Neva cried out, not in her usual bright tone, but a raw, genuine sound of fear. Her practiced mask of cheerful idiocy shattered, revealing the stark terror beneath. This wasn’t a minor indignity; this was a fight for her life.
She grabbed a heavy, old-fashioned flat iron from a shelf and swung it wildly, connecting with the guard’s arm with a sickening thud. He bellowed, pulling back as Neva clawed her way to the chute. The opening was narrow, barely wide enough for her slender frame. She shoved the linen-wrapped register through first, then took a desperate leap, sliding into the dark shaft.
The descent was terrifying. It was a dizzying plunge through absolute blackness, the roar of the steam still faintly echoing from below. The chute twisted and turned, bruising her elbows and knees, the polished metal scraping against her clothes. She could hear the faint, distant shouts of the guards, the muffled yaps from the floor below, and then nothing but the whistle of air around her.
She landed with a jarring thump, tumbling out onto a plush, dark carpet. Dust motes danced in a single beam of light from a tall, leaded window. Her head spun, and for a moment, she just lay there, gasping, the adrenaline coursing through her veins. She recognized the rich scent of aged leather and pipe tobacco, the quiet hum of an incandescent lamp. Kestian’s study. The laundry chute, meant for his most private garments, ended here.
Neva pushed herself up, clutching the water-soaked, intact register. She was dishevelled, her hair plastered to her face, her dress torn, her bravado utterly gone. She looked up, her gaze scanning the familiar, oppressive grandeur of the room. Her eyes locked onto the tall figure standing by the massive stone fireplace, a familiar, hated silhouette.
Cressa Lorn. Her sleek dark hair was impeccably styled, her emerald dress uncreased. Her face, however, was a mask of cold fury, her lips twisted into a thin, cruel line. And in her hand, glinting under the soft light, was a silver-plated pistol. It was pressed, with sickening intimacy, against Kestian Dastran’s temple.
Kestian stood rigid, jaw set, his dark gaze locked on Neva. He looked shocked, but there was a flicker of something else there, a primal concern that Neva, even in her terror, recognized.
“Ah, Neva Relladon,” Cressa purred, her voice dripping with venom. “Just in time. I knew you couldn’t resist. Always the little saboteur, aren’t you? Just like your wretched bloodline. The black ribbon, the broken brakes… all your design, wasn’t it? To frame Kestian, to steal his assets.” Her gaze flicked to the damp bundle in Neva’s hand. “And what’s that? More Relladon propaganda?”
Cressa’s thumb clicked, and the sharp, metallic sound of the pistol’s hammer being cocked echoed deafeningly in the silent room. Kestian flinched, but his eyes remained on Neva.
“Burn it, Neva,” Cressa commanded, her tone dropping flat. “Burn the ledger in the fireplace right now, or I blow his brains out.”