The Kingsley estate was finally quiet. The heavy, oppressive tension that had choked the house all evening had settled into a thick, dark silence. The servants had retreated to their quarters, terrified of drawing the master's anger. Aunt Eunice was firmly locked in her bedroom, her angry shouts having long faded into exhausted, bitter weeping.
Inside her large bedchamber on the first floor, Delaney sat at a small, polished wooden writing desk. A single candle flickered in a silver holder, casting a warm, dancing circle of light over the dark wood. The fire in the hearth had burned down to soft orange coals.
She pulled out a fresh sheet of thick white parchment. She dipped a sharp quill into a glass bottle of black ink.
She took a slow, deep breath, letting the quiet peace of the room wash over her. She needed to write to Rowan. She needed him to know exactly what was happening.
She pressed the tip of the quill to the paper and began to write.
My Dearest Rowan,
