Morning sunlight spilled across the polished floors of Seymour House, bright and indifferent to the tension coiling through its halls.
Baroness Seymour swept toward her daughter's chamber with brisk determination, a folded fan clutched in hand as though it were a weapon. She rapped sharply upon the door.
"Margaret," she called, irritation simmering beneath her voice. No answer.
She stiffened. Knocked again, louder. Still nothing.
"James," she snapped over her shoulder, "open the door."
Lord James Seymour—already wary—stepped forward, tried the knob, then muttered a soft curse under his breath when it clicked open too easily. He pushed the door wide.
Margaret's chamber yawned back at them, silent and empty.
The drapery still fluttered from an open window.
The wardrobe hung open, half its gowns missing.
The vanity lay bare of trinkets, brushes, ribbons.
And upon her neatly made bed—centered deliberately—rested a sealed letter addressed to:
My Family
