//CLARA//
The sun was bleeding out across the western horizon, staining the New York skyline a bruised, angry crimson by the time I reached the mansion.
I slipped through the servant's door, my lungs still burning from the sprint across the cobblestones, my boots caked in the gray slush of the city. I thought I was home free, just a quick dash up the back stairs to hide the soot on my face until a shadow blocked the light.
Aunt Cornelia was fuming. Her face was a shade of mottled purple that suggested she was seconds away from a permanent state of rage.
"Eleanor! You have humiliated this family for the last time! The seamstresses waited—the lace was losing its luster in the fading light—where have you—"
"A delivery for Miss Eleanor. Urgent."
She was just drawing breath for a barrage that probably would've lasted until the wedding night when Higgins appeared, cutting her off. He held a silver tray out between us like a shield, a small, crumpled square of paper resting on it.
