A few days had passed since the brutal, bloody reckoning in the courtyard. The Thompson estate, scrubbed clean of all its stains, had settled into a new, strange, and quiet order.
The servants, now under Marissa's direct and undisputed authority, moved with efficiency. They had seen what their new mistress was capable of—both in her cunning and in her capacity for cold, absolute justice.
This morning, the central courtyard was once again a hive of activity, but it was not for a party or a punishment. It was for a departure.
A large, sturdy, and unmarked traveling carriage, built for a long journey, stood waiting. Footmen were strapping the last of several small, securely fastened trunks onto the back. Maids were placing baskets and blankets inside.
In the center of this quiet bustle stood Marissa, and holding her hand, his own small, gloved hand lost in hers, was Ryan.
