Chapter 19 #2
The word settled in her mind like a whisper of fate. If there was any place that held the answers she sought, it was there. Deep in her bones, she knew she had only begun to scratch the surface of something far more sinister. And whatever darkness she was chasing had already taken Cillian.
After barely touching her cold lunch, Evelyne pushed the tray aside and stacked the books in a hurried pile.
She needed a bag, a portmanteau, a valise, anything to carry them.
Her hands trembled as she gathered Cillian’s sketches, folding them hastily before tossing them alongside the tomes.
She had no time to be careful—every second wasted felt like another step further from finding him.
She turned quickly, eyes scanning her room, her mind racing.
Clothes. She needed the right clothes. But how long would she be gone?
A few hours? A day? More? She had no idea.
The uncertainty gnawed at her, making her movements erratic as she rifled through her drawers, yanking dresses from their hangers and scattering them across the floor.
None of them felt right. She couldn’t be corseted and tripping over skirts if she needed to move fast.
Just as her frustration began bubbling into panic, a quiet knock sounded at the door before it eased open. Seraphine.
Evelyne exhaled in relief. “Oh, good. I need your help,” she blurted, barely pausing to look at her handmaid before returning to the whirlwind of fabric around her. She grabbed a pair of boots and threw them onto the pile before digging through her drawers again.
Seraphine, ever calm, stepped further inside. “Lady Evelyne… what can I help with?”
“I need to find him. I need clothes. Help me pack clothes,” Evelyne said hurriedly, her voice fraying at the edges as she threw more garments into the bag. She wasn’t thinking—just grabbing. Tunics, pants, boots. Anything that felt remotely useful.
Seraphine’s voice remained steady. “Yes, dear, but tell me what is happening first so I can help properly.”
Evelyne didn’t answer. She couldn’t. The words felt like an admission of how lost she was. So she kept moving, shoving more into the bag, refusing to slow down. If she slowed down, she’d think. And if she thought, she’d feel.
“Evelyne.” Seraphine’s voice was gentle, and a warm hand settled on Evelyne’s forearm, stopping her mid-motion. “Please explain.”
Evelyne stopped for the first time since she’d entered her brother’s room. The pressure in her chest tightened like a vise, and when she finally met Seraphine’s gaze, she saw nothing but patience and worry. It nearly undid her.
She swallowed hard and closed her eyes, willing herself to focus.
“I need to find Cillian.” She paused. “I’m sure you’ve heard about his disappearance. I need to find him.”
Her words felt heavier than she expected, and her composure suddenly cracked. Fear clawed its way up, suffocating her.
“I wasn’t there for him,” she admitted, voice breaking. “I should have been, and I wasn’t.”
She dropped her face into her hands, hot tears spilling over her fingers. The weight of it all crashed down, and she let it. She let herself mourn her failure, her regret, her helplessness.
Seraphine’s soft hand traced slow, soothing circles against her back. “You were there for him. He knew that. But he didn’t… No one understood what was happening.” She hesitated before adding, “This is not your fault.”
Evelyne sniffed, wiped her cheeks, and took a shaky breath. She couldn’t afford to cry. She had to act. Lifting her chin, she met Seraphine’s gaze again with quiet determination.
“I will find answers, but I need you to help me gather everything I need. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone, and I need you to keep this from my parents as long as possible.”
Seraphine’s brows knit in concern, but before she could protest, Evelyne grasped her hand.
“Please.” Desperation bled through her voice. “Do this for me.”
A moment passed before Seraphine gave a slight nod, and that was all the confirmation Evelyne needed.
Together, they packed with purpose. Seraphine laid out a portmanteau that was sturdy and practical for carriage travel. At the same time, Evelyne retrieved a carpet bag from her wardrobe—compact enough for daily use yet roomy enough to hold her essentials.
She carefully selected two well-made travel dresses designed for ease of movement but still appropriate for her status.
A simple evening dress followed in case she needed to maintain appearances.
She added a warm cloak lined with wool and a shawl for extra warmth.
Gloves, stockings, and undergarments were neatly folded beside them.
For footwear, she packed a pair of sturdy leather boots for long walks and one pair of fine shoes, should she need them.
And before closing the case, she carefully packed the books, ensuring they were secured among her clothing.
Seraphine tucked a small knife into the folds of her cloak, its discreet weight comforting.
Evelyne gathered a water flask, then carefully wrapped dried fruit, nuts, and biscuits in linen, securing them inside the carpet bag.
She placed a coin purse beside them, ensuring she had enough funds for unexpected expenses.
But it wasn’t enough.
Once they had finished, Evelyne slipped from her chambers, heart pounding as she moved swiftly through the halls. Most of the staff were occupied with evening dinner preparations, and the house was quiet. She reached her father’s empty study, glancing over her shoulder before slipping inside.
She didn’t hesitate. She knew the fundamentals—how to load the powder and ball, prime the pan, and fire if necessary.
Her father had taught her when she was twelve, allowing her to practice for a few years before deeming it improper for a young lady to handle a firearm.
She was undoubtedly rusty, but hoped she’d never have to use it.
She pulled open the desk drawer with steady hands, fingers brushing against the polished wood and cold steel of the short-barreled flintlock pistol concealed within. Her father had always kept it in the same spot, safely tucked away for emergencies.
After securing the pistol inside her carpet bag, Evelyne paused, then reached back into the drawer.
The weapon would be useless without the proper supplies.
She found the small leather pouch her father had always kept nearby, containing powder, lead balls, and spare flint.
The faint scent of sulfur and oil clung to the contents.
When was the last time it had been used?
Was the powder still dry? Would the flint even spark?
She didn’t know, but she’d sooner take the risk than be left defenseless.
Tucking the pouch securely beside the pistol, she fastened her bag shut and exhaled.
She was ready.