Chapter 2: The Letter in the Fire

The fire in the study had nearly burned itself to embers by the time Ryan Ashford returned to his desk. The letter lay where he had left it, its black seal cracked, its cruel words still echoing in his mind.

“Arrest orders for Amelia Fairbourne.”

He stared at the parchment, the ink bleeding slightly where rain had touched it from his coat. Outside, the storm had quieted to a soft, persistent drizzle. It should have been peaceful, but peace had long since left the Château d’Ashford.

Ryan pressed a hand to his forehead. He had worked too hard to build this life of stone and silence, too long to let the past crawl back into his heart. And yet, she was here. The woman who once shattered him now slept under his roof, oblivious to the danger hovering just beyond her door.

The Crown’s orders were clear. Amelia Fairbourne was to be detained and delivered to the authorities in Paris. No explanation was offered, but none was needed. In times like these, suspicion was enough to condemn.

A log cracked in the hearth, spitting sparks into the air. Ryan picked up the letter and read it again, his jaw tightening. How could Amelia gentle, soft-spoken Amelia be entangled in something as reckless as treason?

He closed his eyes, remembering her laughter, the way she had once stood beneath the rose archway of Fairbourne Manor, sunlight on her hair. She had spoken then of freedom, of kindness, of a world where people might choose their own fates. Perhaps those words had taken root in dangerous places.

The door creaked. Ryan looked up sharply as his valet, Henri, entered, carrying a tray.

“Your tea, monsieur,” Henri said, setting it down.

Ryan nodded absently. “Has Miss Fairbourne been shown to her quarters?”

“Oui, monsieur. The east wing. She was most grateful.”

“Good.” He hesitated, then added, “See that she has everything she requires. And… no visitors. None.”

Henri’s brow furrowed slightly, but he bowed. “As you wish, monsieur.”

When the servant had gone, Ryan took the letter once more. The wax seal gleamed faintly in the firelight, the royal crest mocking him. He moved closer to the flames, his hand trembling. The paper caught easily, curling black as the words turned to ash.

“Not tonight,” he murmured.

For now, Amelia would remain safe.

Amelia rose before dawn, the pale morning light spilling through the high windows of her small chamber. The room was modest but clean a luxury compared to the cold taverns she had endured in recent months. She dressed quickly, braiding her hair with careful hands before stepping into the silent corridors.

The château seemed even larger in the early hours, its halls echoing faintly with the sound of servants beginning their day. She had been told to meet the housekeeper in the library for instruction, but her curiosity led her elsewhere toward the sound of music.

A piano. Soft, hesitant notes carried through the corridor, mingling with the scent of old books and wax. Amelia followed the melody until she reached a half-open door. Peering in, she saw him.

Ryan sat at the piano, his head bowed, fingers moving with restrained grace over the keys. The melody was familiar an old English lullaby he used to play when the world felt too cruel. She had thought him incapable of such tenderness now.

Her breath caught. She took a step closer, and the floor creaked beneath her. Ryan’s hands stilled instantly.

Their eyes met in the reflection of the polished piano lid. His expression shifted surprise, then something unreadable.

“I did not mean to intrude,” Amelia said softly.

He rose, every motion precise. “You have a habit of arriving unannounced, Miss Fairbourne.”

“I heard the music,” she admitted. “It was… beautiful.”

He gave a faint, humorless smile. “I’ve no time for beauty. It accomplishes little.”

Amelia’s heart ached at the bitterness in his tone. “Once, you believed beauty could change the world.”

He turned sharply. “Once, I believed many foolish things.”

Silence hung between them, heavy as the storm clouds beyond the window. Amelia wanted to bridge it, to say the words she had swallowed for years, but pride held her still.

At last, Ryan spoke again, his voice quieter. “You should be careful, Amelia. France is not the country you remember.”

“I’ve seen enough to know,” she replied. “People are starving. The nobles grow frightened.”

“And the frightened make desperate choices,” he said, his gaze piercing. “You would do well to stay clear of politics.”

“I only wish to earn an honest living.”

He studied her for a long moment, then inclined his head. “Then do so. But remember there are forces here that will not spare you because of sentiment.”

Before she could answer, a sharp knock echoed through the hall. Henri entered, his face pale.

“Pardon, monsieur,” he said breathlessly. “A messenger from Paris. Urgent.”

Ryan’s jaw tensed. “Bring him in.”

A young courier stepped into the room, his coat drenched from the rain. He bowed, then handed Ryan a sealed envelope bearing the same black wax crest as before.

Amelia, unaware of the symbol’s meaning, stood quietly at the side, her curiosity flickering. Ryan broke the seal, scanning the words quickly. His face turned ashen.

“What is it?” Amelia asked gently.

He folded the paper in half, forcing composure. “Nothing that concerns you, Miss Fairbourne.”

But she saw the tremor in his hand. “Ryan”

“That will be all,” he said sharply. “Return to your duties.”

She flinched at his tone, nodded, and left without another word.

The moment the door closed, Ryan exhaled heavily. The letter fell from his grasp to the floor. The message was brief and merciless:

“The traitor must be delivered to Paris within three days. If you fail, your allegiance will be questioned.”

He stared at the words until they blurred. Betray her and save himself. Or defy the Crown and risk everything.

Outside, the sky cracked open with thunder again, and the first shouts of protest echoed faintly from the distant village.

Ryan looked toward the door where Amelia had gone, his expression torn. “Damn you, Amelia,” he whispered. “Why must it always be you?”

He snatched the letter from the floor, threw it into the fireplace, and watched it burn. But as the flames rose, a new sound reached him hooves pounding in the distance, urgent and fast.

A second messenger burst into the foyer moments later, shouting for him by name.

And in the corridor above, Amelia leaned

over the banister, listening as the words carried up through the hall:

“They’re coming for her tonight.”