Maeve pressed against my shoulder, breath clouding white as we strained to pierce the darkness beyond the window.
The celebration's music drifted faint behind us, a mockery of normalcy against whatever had just screamed.
"There." Maeve's finger shot out, steady as an accusation. "Someone's on the south lawn. Moving wrong."
My heart slammed. Nathaniel. The name erupted in my mind before logic could intervene. I spun from the window and bolted down the corridor, silk skirts clutched high, my body moving before thought could form chains.
"Helena, stop!"
Maeve's command cracked like a whip. I skidded on stone, wheeling back to find her yanking candles from a heavy brass candelabrum with violent efficiency.
Wax scattered across the floor as she gripped the emptied metal base in both hands, testing its weight.
"We're not running blind into whatever that was." She hefted the makeshift weapon with surprising competence. "Not without something to swing."
"Someone could be dying—"
"Then let's ensure we don't join them." She strode toward me, the candelabrum balanced like a club. "Could be a drunk guest. Could be an animal attack. Could be worse."
"We're wasting time."
"We're being smart." I looked at her and wondered if she was a real person or a goddess of war. "You know these grounds. I know how to break skulls. Together we might survive whatever's out there."
The combination of evening silk and a brass weapon should have been absurd. Instead, she looked like a Greek goddess of war—deadly intent wrapped in emerald satin. No cowering, no calls for male protection. Just immediate, practical violence.
We seized our cloaks in the large wardrobe and plunged toward the nearest exit. Two footmen materialized at the archway, faces creased with alarm.
"My ladies, you can't venture out unescorted—"
"Step aside." My voice could have frozen blood.
"But the grounds aren't secure," the younger one persisted, eyes widening at Maeve's weapon. "And why do you need—is that a candelabrum?"
"Move or I'll demonstrate its use on your skull," Maeve said pleasantly.
"We should alert Lord Blackwood—"
"We should do many things," I cut him off. "Instead, we're going outside. Stand aside or explain to my husband why you physically restrained his pregnant wife."
They scattered. We burst into February's grip, cold air slicing through silk like accusations.
The dark pressed close, but I knew these grounds like my own pulse—every path, every shadow, every place where danger might crouch.
"This way." I led left, gravel crunching beneath our boots as we skirted the formal gardens. "The cry came from beyond the yew hedge."
"What are we walking into?" Maeve kept pace easily, her breath steady despite our speed. "Give me scenarios."
"Could be anything. Poachers sometimes try the south boundary. Servants drink in the carriage house and fight over wages. Sometimes the grooms exercise horses late if they're restless."
"You don't believe any of those."
"No."
"Then what?" She swung the candelabrum in a controlled arc, demonstrating she could maintain balance while moving. "Your first reaction was specific. You know who's out here."
"I suspect."
"The mysterious and dangerously handsome man you never named?" Her tone carried too much perception. "You’re avoiding him, aren’t you?"
"How did you—"
"I observe everything. I can draw conclusions from how people act. It's why my parents despair." She adjusted her grip on the brass. "Is he the type to scream?"
"He's the type to die silent." The truth escaped before I could cage it. "Which is why hearing him means something's gone catastrophically wrong."
We rounded the yew hedge where shadows thickened to tar.
Movement ahead—stumbling, graceless, fundamentally wrong. Even in minimal moonlight, I recognized the height, the shoulders, the way he favored his left side when walking.
"Nathaniel!"
I sprinted forward. Maeve matched me stride for stride, candelabrum raised for either attack or defense.
He turned at my voice and his knees buckled like cut strings. We lunged simultaneously, catching him before he hit frozen earth.
My hands found his shoulders, Maeve grabbed his ribs, and together we absorbed his dead weight.
Wet warmth soaked through my gloves immediately.
His coat hung in ribbons, fabric gaping over wounds that went deep enough to glimpse things that should stay hidden. The metallic stench of blood filled my lungs, thick enough to taste.
"Jesus Christ." Maeve's grip tightened as more blood pulsed out. "What did this do to you?"
His eyes cracked open, struggling to focus on my face. His mouth moved but no sound emerged except a wet rasp. More blood bubbled from his lips.
"Don't try to speak." I pressed harder against the worst gash, feeling his life pulse between my fingers. "Save your strength."
He managed one word: "Helena."
Just my name, but it carried volumes—pain, warning, desperate urgency, something massive left unspoken.
"Can you stand if we support you?" Maeve shifted his weight, practical even in crisis. "We need to get him inside."
Nathaniel's hand clutched weakly at my wrist. His head moved fractionally—whether nod or shake, I couldn't tell. His eyes rolled back, showing white, and his body went completely limp.
"He's dying." My voice came out strangled. "God, he's actually dying."
"Not if we move now." Maeve braced more of his weight.
Tears burned hot down my cheeks, shocking in the cold, blurring my vision as we started dragging him across frozen ground. His blood left a dark trail behind us, black as ink in the moonlight.
"You're alive," I whispered against his ear, not sure if he could hear, not sure if it was even true anymore. "You're alive and you're going to stay that way. Hold on. Just hold on while we get you help."
His head lolled against my shoulder, no response except the irregular flutter of breath that might stop at any moment.