The world returned to Baron Edgar in a painful rush of light and sound. The coarse, musty-smelling sack was harshly ripped from his head, and he was left blinking, his eyes stinging from the sudden brightness of a single oil lamp. The air was cold and damp. He was seated on a rickety, uncomfortable chair, the kind one might find in a forgotten cellar.
As his vision swam and then focused, the scene before him solidified. He was in a small, bare room. Across a simple wooden desk, a woman was sitting calmly, her legs crossed elegantly at the ankle. She was adjusting the fit of her fine, silk gloves, her movements slow and graceful.
"Augusta," he said, his voice a dry, hoarse rasp from his earlier, muffled shouts in the carriage. He tried to stand, but a firm hand on each of his shoulders pushed him back down into the chair. He looked to his side. The two large, silent men who had dragged him from the carriage stood over him like stone statues.
