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Julian rose from the desk. The room spun. "You did not think to send after her?"

"I did, sir. But by the time the stablehands discovered her absence, the sky had begun to⁠—"

Julian pushed past the man, not caring if he knocked him off his feet.

The hallway was dark as a crypt, only a thread of blue dusk outlining the far window. He reached the grand stair in three bounds, nearly tripping on the last step, and flung himself into the vestibule.

"Coat!" he roared. "Boots!" He tore his own greatcoat from the rack and jammed his arms in, ignoring the buttons. His boots followed. Gloves. The entire time, he kept a mental tally: hours missing, minutes since Danvers last saw her, the distance a horse could travel at a gallop⁠—

He barreled into the street. The wind lashed ice-cold rain into his face, and the sky above seethed with the sickly, electric yellow of a gathering storm. In the stable yard, he found the groom staring up at the sky, hatless, mouth open.

"Bring out the black," Julian snapped.

The groom started, eyes wide, but obeyed. Within seconds, the stallion was led up, tack in disarray, reins knotted and barely adjusted.

Julian swung onto the horse's back. "Did you see which way she went?" His voice cut through the rain.

The groom pointed with a shaking hand. "North, Your Grace. Toward Marylebone Lane."

Julian dug his heels in. The stallion snorted and surged forward, slipping once before catching its stride.

London blurred past—the shops with their lamps half-lit, the last stragglers hurrying home, the cries of the night market lost beneath the wind. At the city's edge, the stone gave way to churned mud, and the air turned raw with the scent of rain and sodden grass.

He took the lane at a dead run. The horse's hooves slipped, but Julian kept it steady, guiding with his knees. Each flash of lightning lit the world for a second—trees, fences, empty fields, nothing. He called Adelaide's name into the wind, once, twice, again, the sound swallowed instantly by the storm.

For a mad instant, he thought he saw her—a flash of blue silk, a gloved hand waving, but it was only a scrap of tarp caught on a gatepost. He pressed on.

Mud spat up into his face, his coat soaked through, his fingers so numb he could barely feel the reins. The world narrowed to the next bend in the road, the next hedgerow, the next impossible hope. His lungs burned with every breath.

He remembered, sharply, the morning Thomas left for Scotland. The light had been just like this—unnatural, cruel, the world caught between seasons. I will be fine, Thomas had said. Do not fret so. I will bring back a new species of moss and perhaps a better mood for you, if you ask politely.

Julian bit back a scream.

He reached the place where the road forked, one path toward the old market town, the other toward the country estate where Adelaide's childhood friend once lived.

He chose the second. He had never seen her so distraught as she was after their fight. If he knew anything, it was that she sought quiet when she wished to be alone, and the woods beyond Solitude Lake were the quietest in England.

He barreled on. The road grew rough, then vanished entirely as he entered the woods. He dismounted, nearly falling, and led the horse by hand. Branches clawed his face, the cold stung at his skin, but he kept going, each step a curse at himself, at fate, at every wretched thing that brought him here.

He saw it, at last: her mare, tied fast to a low-hanging branch, its flanks steaming, its eyes wide with fear.

Julian's heart nearly stopped.

He called out, "Adelaide!" Nothing.

He left his own horse and plunged into the trees, stumbling, hands out, boots sinking deep in mud. He called again, louder, voice cracking.

"Adelaide! Answer me! Please⁠—"

A branch caught him at the temple, nearly knocking him to the ground. He staggered, caught himself, and kept moving.

Wind ripped through the canopy. Rain fell in sheets, so cold it felt like knives. He was soaked, shivering, every nerve on fire.

He broke through to the edge of Solitude Lake. The water churned, black and angry, the wind driving ripples across its surface. He scanned the shoreline, desperate.

No sign of her.

He ran along the bank, feet slipping, mud spraying up to his knees. "Adelaide!" he screamed, desperate now, "Adelaide⁠—"