Chapter 3: The Escape at Midnight

The evening air lay thick with mist, curling through the corridors like whispered secrets. Candles flickered weakly in their sconces, their flames struggling against a draught that carried the scent of rain and distant smoke.

Amelia Fairbourne sat by the small window of her chamber, her sewing abandoned in her lap. She could not sleep. Ever since her arrival, something in the château felt… wrong. The servants spoke in hushed tones, their eyes avoiding hers. And Ryan no, Monsieur Ashford had been distant to the point of cruelty.

She had known him once as a man of warmth and laughter. Now he spoke in clipped sentences, his gaze unreadable, as if every word cost him a measure of pain.

Amelia pressed her fingers to the windowpane. Beyond the glass, the courtyard shimmered with puddles from the day’s rain. Somewhere beyond those gates lay Paris and the rising tide of revolution. She had seen its edges in the villages: bread riots, tricolour flags, whispers of vengeance. France was unraveling, one thread at a time.

And yet, she had come here, to this foreign land, in search of safety. The irony was not lost on her.

A sudden sound broke her reverie hurried footsteps echoing faintly through the corridor. Amelia turned, her pulse quickening. A moment later, a soft knock sounded at her door.

“Miss Fairbourne,” came a hushed voice. “It is I Henri.”

She crossed the room and opened the door. The valet’s face was pale, his eyes darting nervously toward the stairwell.

“Forgive me, mademoiselle,” he whispered, “but you must leave this place at once.”

“Leave?” she repeated, confused. “Whatever for?”

Henri swallowed hard. “There are men coming from Paris soldiers. They mean to arrest you.”

The words struck her like a physical blow. “Arrest me? That’s impossible! I’ve done nothing—”

“It matters not what you have done,” he said quickly. “They believe you to be part of the revolutionary cause. I overheard Monsieur Ashford speaking with a messenger. They have given him three days to deliver you to the authorities.”

Amelia stepped back, her breath catching. “Ryan would never—”

Henri’s eyes softened. “I do not know what your history is with him, mademoiselle. But I know this he burns with conflict. Whatever he feels for you, it may not be enough to save you once the soldiers arrive.”

Her knees trembled. “When?”

“Tonight. Before dawn.”

She clutched at the doorframe, the world spinning. “Then I must go.”

Henri nodded. “I have prepared a horse. There is a servant’s gate by the stables I will meet you there in one hour. Take only what you must.”

He slipped away before she could thank him.

Amelia closed the door and leaned against it, her heart pounding wildly. She looked around the room — her few belongings, her worn travel cloak, the small locket that still held Ryan’s faded portrait.

Was it possible? Had he really turned against her?

No. The Ryan she had known, the man who once played her mother’s favorite melody beneath the orchard trees, could not betray her to the Crown. And yet… she had seen the tension in his eyes when the messenger came. The letter he refused to discuss. The tremor in his hand.

Tears stung her eyes, but she brushed them away. Whether or not he had betrayed her, she could not stay to find out.

She packed quickly a small satchel of clothes, a few coins, and the locket. As she fastened her cloak, she heard a sound behind her the faintest creak of the door.

“Running away, Amelia?”

Her blood ran cold.

Ryan stood in the doorway, his coat unbuttoned, his expression shadowed by the flickering light. His grey eyes searched hers, and for a moment she could not breathe.

“How long have you been standing there?” she whispered.

“Long enough to confirm my suspicions,” he said quietly. “Henri has always been loyal but even loyalty bends under fear.”

“So it’s true, then,” she said, voice trembling. “You mean to turn me in.”

Ryan stepped closer, his jaw tightening. “You are wanted by the Crown. There is nothing I can do—”

“You could choose, Ryan!” Her voice broke, full of hurt and disbelief. “You could choose to believe I am innocent!”

He said nothing.

For a long, terrible moment, the only sound was the crackling of the candle wick. Then, at last, he spoke softer, almost to himself. “Do you think it is so simple? To defy the King’s men? To risk everything I’ve built?”

Her eyes filled with tears. “So your fortune is worth more than my life?”

His expression faltered, pain flickering across his face. He turned away, running a hand through his hair. “You don’t understand. If they suspect me of protecting a traitor, they’ll destroy everything. My company. My workers. Every person who depends on me.”

“Then destroy me instead,” she whispered. “At least you’ll have saved something.”

Ryan froze, his shoulders rigid. Then, without another word, he crossed the room and slammed the door shut. The lock clicked into place.

“Forgive me,” he said through the wood, his voice raw. “You will thank me when this is over.”

“Ryan!” she cried, pounding on the door. “Don’t do this! Please!”

But his footsteps were already fading down the corridor.

Amelia stood there, shaking, the reality crashing down around her. The man she had once refused the man she had secretly never stopped loving was about to hand her to her death.

She would not let it happen.

Without thinking, she grabbed the candle from the table, pressed its flame to the edge of her bedsheet, and waited until the smoke began to rise. The fire caught quickly, spreading along the fabric. Within moments, it was licking at the walls.

“Fire!” she screamed, pounding on the door. “Help! Fire!”

Footsteps thundered outside, shouts filling the corridor. The lock turned and as the door burst open, Amelia darted past the startled servant, racing down the hallway. Smoke billowed behind her, swallowing the cries of alarm.

She ran through the narrow servants’ passages, her cloak streaming behind her like wings. The air was thick with the smell of burning linen and fear. She could hear chaos breaking out in the distance orders, panic, the ringing of bells.

At last, she reached the courtyard. Henri stood by the stables, holding the reins of a saddled horse. His eyes widened when he saw her.

“Mon Dieu, mademoiselle, what have you done?”

“Bought myself a chance,” she gasped.

He helped her into the saddle. “Go, quickly! Ride west toward Calais. Do not stop until you are far from here.”

“Thank you,” she whispered. “For everything.”

Henri stepped back. “May God protect you, mademoiselle.”

Amelia spurred the horse into motion, the hooves striking sparks against the cobblestones as she galloped toward the gates. Behind her, flames illuminated the château, glowing against the night sky.

But as she neared the gate, a figure stepped into her path tall, dark coat whipping in the wind.

Ryan.

“Amelia, stop!” he shouted, his voice torn with desperation.

The horse reared, nearly throwing her. “You had your chance, Ryan!” she cried.

He took a step forward, eyes blazing. “You don’t understand they’re coming for you now! The soldiers”

“I know!” she shouted. “And I won’t die here!”

He reached for her reins, but the horse bolted, splashing through the puddles and bursting through the open gate. Ryan shouted after her, his voice swallowed by the storm.

Lightning split the sky, and for a single, blinding moment, Amelia looked back at the château, at the man she once loved, standing framed in the firelight, torn between duty and desire.

And then she was gone, swallowed by the darkness beyond the hills.

Ryan watched until the night claimed her, rain washing the soot from his hands. His chest heaved, torn by guilt and something deeper.

Behind him, Henri appeared, breathless. “Monsieur! The soldiers they’ve arrived.”

Ryan turned slowly, his eyes hardening. “Then let them come.”

He looked once more into the rain-soaked road where Amelia had vanished.

“God help us both,” he whispered.