Later that afternoon, Evelyn left Nathaniel's chamber under the pretense of needing fresh air. No one stopped her. They never did. She was the master's wife, after all.
The halls of Everthorne Manor were hushed but not empty. Servants passed with practiced speed, heads bowed, eyes forward. It wasn't difficult to go unnoticed—no one dared linger too long in her presence, not when whispers still followed her like a second shadow.
She made her way toward the east wing, where the household correspondence was sorted before being delivered. She remembered the room from a passing mention—something Locke had said to Nathaniel weeks ago.
When she reached the narrow, oak-framed door, it was already ajar.
Inside stood a young maid, perhaps no older than Evelyn herself, arranging letters and packages across a large wooden table. The girl didn't look up at first, humming softly to herself as she worked.
Evelyn stepped in. "Pardon me."
The maid gasped and nearly dropped the stack in her hands. "M-my lady!"
Evelyn offered a soft smile, careful not to seem threatening. "Please. It's all right. I just… needed a moment away from the upper floor. I didn't mean to startle you."
The maid nodded quickly, but Evelyn could see the nerves in her posture. She stepped further inside.
"Do you—" Evelyn hesitated, choosing her words with care. "Do you handle all the letters that come into the manor?"
The maid blinked. "Not all, my lady. Only the ones brought by the post riders. Sometimes couriers bring private ones for Lord Carlisle directly. Those go through Locke."
"Locke," Evelyn repeated, frowning faintly. "And… did any of those arrive today?"
The girl nodded, visibly relaxing now that she was on firmer ground. "Yes, my lady. Just one. A strange one, if I may say so. Black envelope. No return crest. I hadn't seen one like it before."
Evelyn's heart skipped. "And who brought it?"
"I… I'm not sure. It wasn't one of the usual men. He came on horseback, cloaked. Didn't say a word. Gave it to Locke and left without waiting. Fast, like he didn't want to linger."
Evelyn's pulse quickened. "Did he leave through the front gate?"
The girl hesitated. "I think so, but you'd have to ask Peter. He tends the stables. Might've seen more."
Evelyn touched the girl's arm lightly in thanks, her mind already racing.
The stables lay just beyond the garden wall, tucked beneath the slope of a hill where the earth turned soft and muddy in spring. Evelyn kept her head down as she walked, a shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders. It wasn't cold, but the mist still clung to everything like a second skin.
Peter was where she expected—bent over one of the stalls, brushing down a dapple-grey mare. He looked up at her approach, blinking in surprise.
"My lady?" he said, quickly wiping his hands on his apron. "Are you lost?"
"No," Evelyn said gently. "I'm… simply curious. I was told a courier came this morning. Not one of the usual men. Did you see him?"
Peter frowned. "Aye. Strange fellow. Came early, before the fog had even lifted. Didn't speak, didn't smile. Just handed Locke the letter and rode off like the devil was on his heels."
"What did he look like?"
Peter scratched his jaw. "Couldn't say. Wore a long cloak with the hood pulled deep. Couldn't see his face. But the horse…" He paused, considering. "Black. Real black. Not like the ones from around here. Sleek, strong build. Eastern stock, if I had to guess."
Evelyn's brows furrowed. "So he didn't come from the city post?"
Peter shook his head. "No ma'am. Came from the north road, near the ridge. No courier in his right mind uses that trail unless they're hiding something."
That was enough to plant something sharp and certain in Evelyn's chest. The black envelope hadn't come through any proper channel. Someone had gone out of their way to ensure it arrived in secret.
And Locke—Locke had taken it directly to Nathaniel.
"Thank you, Peter," she said, already backing away. "That's all I needed."
Peter looked puzzled but said nothing as she turned and hurried back toward the manor.
---
Back in her room, Evelyn sat on the edge of the chaise, staring into the hearth.
She didn't go for the letter.
Not yet.
Something was wrong—something deeper than Nathaniel wanted her to see. The black horse, the cloaked rider, the deliberate path chosen. This wasn't a message that had slipped into the wrong hands.
This had been meant to be seen.
Meant to be found.
She thought of Nathaniel's face when he opened the envelope. The flicker of something like fear. And how tightly he'd clutched it afterward, as if guarding a weapon. Or a lie.
Evelyn's gaze drifted toward the corner drawer of her desk.
She would search it. Not tonight—she couldn't risk being caught.
But soon.
'Only the contents of the letter can reveal what is going on.' She thought.
Over the next three days, Evelyn became a shadow in the manor.
She didn't ask questions. She didn't press Nathaniel. Instead, she watched.
He was different.
More withdrawn. Sharper. Like a blade honed too finely—dangerous in its restraint. He held his temper, but barely. He paced more often, lingered at windows longer, and disappeared into his study for hours at a time. Whenever she passed him in the halls, he gave her that same look—possessive, guarded, and… calculating.
And then, on the fourth morning, Evelyn overheard it.
From behind the slightly ajar drawing room door, she paused as two voices drifted out—Nathaniel's and a visiting officer she didn't recognize.
"You'll leave by nightfall?" the man asked.
Nathaniel's voice was clipped. "The order came directly from the Inner Council. Supreme Command isn't a mantle I take lightly."
"And the Duchess?"
A pause. Then: "She stays. Under guard. I won't have her interfered with."
Evelyn's breath caught.
She backed away before they could see her.
The letter had something to do with it. She was sure of it.
That night, the manor shifted. Servants moved with quiet haste. Locke was nowhere to be seen. Nathaniel had left, she made sure of it.
When the clock struck midnight, she slipped from her chambers barefoot, her steps silent against the wood. The east wing was dark, but she knew the way.
Nathaniel's study sat tucked between two corridors, shielded by a heavy oak door and a discreet iron lock. But she had seen him unlock it before, had studied the way he turned the key, where he kept it—in the drawer of the console just outside the study.
It took her only a moment to retrieve it.
The door creaked slightly as it opened. Inside, the room smelled of cedar and ink, the fire burned low in the grate. Maps were rolled across the table, and military parchments stacked in neat columns.
But she didn't care about any of that.
She moved to the far desk, where she'd seen him place the letter days ago. The black envelope. The one sealed in red wax that no longer bore a seal.
The drawer was locked.
Of course it was.
Her pulse quickened. She glanced toward the shelves behind her. Among the books and folders, she spotted it: a small, dark key hanging from a nail beneath the lowest shelf, nearly hidden.
The drawer slid open.
And there it was.
The envelope.
Black as night, its wax seal already broken. Her breath caught as she reached for it, fingers trembling slightly as they closed around the smooth paper. It was heavier than it looked—stiff, deliberate. Like it was meant to hold something more than mere words.
With a careful hand, she drew out the letter inside.
Unfolded it.
And stared.
Blank.
Not a single word. No mark. No seal. No writing.
Nothing.
She turned it over, even held it up to the firelight, searching for hidden ink, a watermark, anything. But there was nothing. Just empty parchment.
A chill wrapped around her spine.
This wasn't a mistake. This was intentional.
The letter had never been meant to say anything.
It had been meant to do something.
A sound behind her.
The door.
It slammed shut.
Evelyn spun.
Nathaniel stood in the doorway, his coat half-buttoned, a shadow behind his eyes.
She didn't have time to hide the letter.
He saw it instantly.
"You shouldn't be here," he said, voice low.
Evelyn held the letter tight, heart pounding. "You...you did this on purpose."
He didn't move. Just watched her, as if studying a painting from a distance.
"That's the point," he murmured.
His gaze dropped to the envelope in her hand.
"You couldn't help yourself."
It wasn't anger in his voice.
It was triumph.
And that scared her more than anything else.