Page 48 of Goldrage
Aurelia’s door mocks me. Just wood and brass, no different from dozens of others in this place. But behind it breathes the only person who makes any of this bearable. My hand drifts upward, hovering inches from the handle. One knock. One word. That’s all it would take to shatter this suffocating distance.
My fingers curl into a fist.
What then? Storm inside and steal moments that would cost us both? Watch guards break down the door while Julian decides I need more permanent restraints? Aurelia might end up punished for my lack of control.
“Mr. Harrow,” a guard says behind me. “The kitchen is this way.”
I lower my hand with a sigh and continue down the hallway. Each step away from her feels like betraying my soul’s only desire.
Female voices drift from the kitchen as I approach. They’re too low for me to make out any words, but the voices are unmistakably urgent. I slow my approach, years of survival instincts awakening despite my body’s weakness.
Finally, I’m close enough to catch some words.
“—the timing has to be perfect—” That’s Lady Harrow’s voice, barely audible.
“—but what if he realizes—” Bianca now. Her nervous energy makes her pitch higher than usual.
“—leave that to me. You just focus on?—”
My crutch catches the edge of a decorative table, making a vase rock loudly in the quiet darkness. The voices cut off instantly, silence rushing in to fill the void. When I round the corner into the kitchen, both women spring apart like guilty conspirators caught mid-plot.
Which, evidently, they are.
“Adrian!” Bianca’s face flushes as she rushes toward me, hands fluttering between reaching for me and wringing together. “You should be resting, honey. What if you fall?”
I let her fuss because resistance would raise questions, but my attention is fixed on Lady Harrow. She regards me with the calculating coldness of a snake deciding whether to strike or retreat. Whatever scheme they’re hatching, my unexpected arrival has disrupted it.
Lady Harrow glides past without acknowledging my existence, leaving behind the certainty that whatever they’re planning will cost someone dearly.
Possibly me.
Definitely Aurelia.
The next evening arrives with deceptive calm. The guards shift through their rotations. I’ve spent hours mapping their patterns from my window, noting when someone’s attention wavers, when blind spots align. The guard outside my door—Thompson—always takesthree steps left during his hourly position change, creating a twelve-second window.
That means eleven seconds to slip past. One second for a margin of error.
As for the cameras, I’ll have to hope that the timing coincides with a guard looking away or changing shifts. This is the only option I’ve come up with.
I leave the crutches propped against the wall. They would announce every movement, especially if I knock them into objects by accident. Stealth matters more than stability tonight.
I watch the clock on the nightstand, waiting for the right moment when Thompson will have his attention turned away. My hand hovers over my bedroom doorknob.
Three… two… one…
I twist the handle and step out. My first steps send white-hot agony through my healing tissue. As I close the door silently and then scurry around a corner, my muscles tremble with the effort of supporting weight they’re not ready to bear. I bite down hard on my tongue, channeling pain into fuel.
I hear Thompson’s boots scuff across the tile. There’s a pause, then they continue on in the opposite direction.
I exhale. I’m in the clear, but it won’t last long. Especially if someone watching my bedroom cameras notices my disappearance.
The hallway stretches before me. Security cameras sweep predetermined arcs—left to right, pause, return. I’ve observed them meticulously and know their rhythm. There are narrow blind spots for each one and ways I canavoid them if I time it correctly. My bare feet whisper against marble as I move between shadows, each step calculated to avoid the cameras’ unblinking eyes.
Progress comes in inches. My wound throbs with every movement, threatening to buckle legs already weak from disuse. Sweat beads along my spine despite the estate’s climate control. By the time I reach the junction leading to Aurelia’s wing, my shirt clings to my skin and my breathing comes in carefully controlled gasps.
Almost there. Almost to my love. Twenty more feet and?—
“Going somewhere, brother?”
