When she opened her eyes again, the carriage had stopped.
For several long moments, she remained where she was, struggling to regain her bearings.
Someone opened the carriage door, and light flooded the interior.
"My lady." The coachman’s voice reached her as though from the far end of a tunnel.
He extended his hand to help her down.
Cassandra accepted it automatically. The moment her feet touched the ground, her knees buckled beneath her.
She would have fallen had the coachman not caught her by the arm.
"My apologies," she murmured, though even to her own ears, the words sounded slurred.
"It’s quite all right, my lady." His grip tightened as he steadied her, keeping her close.
Cassandra lifted her head to peer at her surroundings. Her vision was frustratingly blurred around the edges, forcing her to squint against the afternoon light.
There was no sign of Ainsbury Hall.
Instead, there was only an empty stretch of countryside, with a solitary old stone building standing alone amidst it. Its weathered walls were darkened with age, and the windows appeared small and narrow from where she stood.
Her brow furrowed.
Where was she?
Several figures stood waiting outside the building. Watching them, watching her.
She could not yet distinguish their faces, only that there were several of them. From their clothes, she could tell there were three men and two women. They stood together patiently like they had been waiting for the carriage to arrive and had known precisely when to expect it.
The coachman’s fingers dug unpleasantly into her skin.
"Come, my lady." He coaxed.
Still too dazed to protest, he was able to guide her forward. The unease that had settled inside her during the journey began to harden into fear.
Cassandra tried to pull away. Or at least, she thought she did. Her body refused to cooperate, each step requiring a conscious effort she was no longer capable of.
The world lurched around her, the edges of her vision washed in a persistent haze that refused to clear no matter how many times she blinked.
Something is terribly wrong, she thought.
The figures waiting in front of the building gradually came into focus, all strangers from what she could see.
Not one face was familiar to her.
The tallest of the men stood at the centre of the group.
He appeared to be in his late forties, lean and immaculately dressed in a dark tailcoat and breeches. His boots had been polished to a mirror-like shine, and not a single detail of his clothing appeared out of place.
There was nothing overtly remarkable about his appearance, yet something about him demanded attention. He, she knew instantly, was the one she ought to be wary of.
He carried himself with the confidence of a man accustomed to being obeyed.
His expression was blank as Cassandra approached.
His eyes travelled over her person, inspecting every inch of her. Slowly and methodically.
The look made her skin crawl.
Who... Who was this man?
Even her thoughts were sluggish, her mind struggling to catch up with what was happening around her.
Questions rose only to dissolve before she could voice them.
She tried to speak. Her lips parted, yet no sound emerged.
It was as though every word had turned to dust before reaching her lips.
After looking his fill, the man finally gave a single, satisfied nod. "She’ll do."
Cassandra tried to piece together what he meant by that.
Then he turned slightly toward the man standing beside him. "We may proceed with today’s arrangements."
Proceed?
Proceed with what?
The question echoed uselessly through Cassandra’s mind.
The men exchanged a few quiet remarks between themselves, speaking too low for her to make out what they were saying.
But as she strained her ears to listen, she managed to catch a few fragments of their conversation.
"...arrived..."
"...everything prepared..."
"...before sunset..."
She frowned, trying desperately to assemble them into something coherent. The harder she tried, the less she understood.
Movement to her left caught her attention.
One of the women had not taken her eyes off Cassandra since she arrived.
She was older than the other woman, perhaps in her early fifties, and dressed neatly in dark, practical travelling clothes.
She said nothing, simply watching as though Cassandra were a conundrum she wished to solve.
The intensity of her gaze settled deep beneath Cassandra’s skin, and there was something in those eyes.
Something like recognition, with a hint of pity.
Regret.
Cassandra’s addled mind robbed her of the ability to make sense of what she was seeing. Yet one certainty remained.
The woman was looking at her as though she knew something Cassandra did not.
It sent a chill racing down Cassandra’s spine.
At last, the woman spoke for the first time when the tall man turned to walk back into the building.
"Mr. Whitmore."
The name drifted lazily through the haze clouding Cassandra’s thoughts.
Whitmore...
Something about it tugged insistently at the edge of her memory, but before she could seize hold of the thought, the woman continued.
"Surely you do not intend to proceed with the wedding while she’s dressed like this."
Wedding.
The single word struck Cassandra with the force of a physical blow.
Wedding?
Her pulse lurched.
The fog clouding her thoughts fractured just enough for panic to break through.
Wedding?
Whose wedding?
Her breathing quickened, each breath coming faster and shallower than the last.
Her gaze darted wildly from one stranger to the next, searching their faces for some indication that she had misunderstood.
No one looked surprised or confused. Only she did.
The older woman gestured toward Cassandra’s dress. "We purchased everything days ago. It would be a terrible waste not to make proper use of it."
Cassandra stared at her, struggling to make sense of the words.
What had they purchased?
For whom?
Mr. Whitmore regarded Cassandra for another brief moment. He looked almost irritated, like the matter was nothing more than an inconvenient delay.
Finally, he gave a curt nod.
"Very well." His voice remained calm. "See that she’s made presentable."
Without another glance in Cassandra’s direction, he turned and walked toward the stone building.
Icy tendrils of fear wrapped around Cassandra’s neck, snatching the breath from her lungs.
No...
Her heartbeat thundered painfully against her chest.
No.
She tried to wrench herself free but the coachman’s grip grew firmer around her arm, as though he had anticipated that she would try to break free.
The older woman stepped toward Cassandra.
"Gently," she murmured to the coachman. "She’s barely able to stand."
"I know." He replied as he urged Cassandra closer to the entrance.
Her feet stumbled across the worn stone path, the soles of her shoes scraping against the uneven surface.
Every instinct screamed at her to run, to fight. To do something. Anything.
But her body remained a prison she could no longer command.
The heavy wooden doors of the lonely stone building stood open before her.
Beyond those doors waited only darkness and the threat of everything they wished to do to her.