Rowan turned back to the conversation. He forced himself to nod as Lady Farrington discussed the merits of lace versus silk. But his mind was upstairs.
Five minutes passed. Then ten.
The door opened.
Simmons entered.
He didn't announce himself. He didn't look at the guests. He walked straight to Rowan. His face, usually a mask of stone, was pale. His eyes were wide with genuine alarm.
He leaned in close to Rowan's ear.
"Something is wrong, Your Grace," Simmons whispered. His voice trembled slightly.
Rowan felt the blood drain from his face.
"What is it?"
"She is not answering," Simmons murmured. "I knocked. I called out. But I heard... noises. Like weeping. Or... madness."
Rowan didn't think.
He stood up abruptly. His chair scraped loudly against the floor.
"Your Grace?" Celine asked, startled.
"Forgive me," Rowan said. His voice was rough. "I have... I have just remembered a crucial document for the railway contract. It cannot wait."
"Now?" Lady Farrington complained.
