By evening, their carriage rolled to a stop outside the offices of The Arden Gazette.
The street remained lively despite the fading daylight. Messengers hurried between buildings carrying bundles of freshly wrapped parcels, while carts laden with reams of paper and barrels of ink occupied the roadside. Through the open windows of the printing office came the steady clatter of presses still hard at work, accompanied by the occasional shouted instruction from somewhere deeper within the building.
The entire establishment seemed alive with purpose.
Not waiting for the footman to assist her, Cassandra hastily climbed down from the carriage, her head turning from side to side as she cast furtive glances around the street to ensure that no one of consequence had noticed her arrival. A dark cloak concealed her hair and shaded the upper half of her face, offering an added measure of protection against prying eyes.
It was a tedious task, attempting to remain inconspicuous while staying constantly alert.
Even so, it had to be done.
The fewer people who knew she had come here, the fewer questions she would later have to answer.
Their footman fell into step behind her as she turned toward the tall brick building a short distance from where the carriage had stopped.
Even now, Adrian’s sharp gaze followed her from the carriage.
One word from her, and he would be at her side in a heartbeat.
The only reason he remained where he was was because of her explicit instructions to stay inside the carriage, well out of sight, unless she required him to intervene.
Swallowing against the sudden dryness in her throat, Cassandra forced herself to push aside the tight knot of nerves that made each breath feel heavier than the last.
This was merely the second step she needed to take if she hoped to free herself from John’s web.
The first move in dismantling everything he had so carefully built.
Those were the very words she repeated to herself as she sharpened her resolve to a knife’s edge.
Like every difficult matter that had ever demanded her attention, she chose to regard this as nothing more than another challenge.
And Cassandra Ashford had never been one to shy away from a challenge, not in this life, nor the last.
John might have succeeded in wearing down her spirit, but he had never truly broken it.
She proved as much by squaring her shoulders and striding through the building’s entrance, her footman never more than an arm’s length behind her.
The scent of fresh ink greeted her almost immediately.
It lingered heavily in the air, mingling with the faint smell of parchment, sealing wax, and oil from the machinery deeper within the premises.
Inside, several men moved briskly through the office, carrying towering stacks of papers from one room to another. Apprentices hurried between desks with ink-stained fingers, while somewhere farther inside, the rhythmic pounding of the presses continued without pause.
Behind a broad wooden counter sat a young clerk bent over a thick leather-bound ledger, diligently recording deliveries with a quill.
He looked up as Cassandra approached, blinking owlishly when she lowered her hood just enough to reveal her face.
"How may I be of assistance?" he asked, momentarily abandoning the entry he had been writing.
"I wish to speak with your publisher," she replied, her voice calm and direct, carrying the same composed authority she employed when addressing the Queen’s councillors.
The clerk hesitated.
Cassandra could practically see the refusal rising to the tip of his tongue before he forced himself to swallow it.
"Mr. Thornton is occupied," he said at last.
In truth, it was little different from a flat refusal.
"I shall not keep him long," Cassandra insisted.
If she retreated every time someone attempted to bar her path, she would never have risen to stand among Arden’s most influential figures. She would never have earned a place within the Queen’s inner circle.
She would have become nothing more than the wife of some forgettable lord, content to spend her days planning tedious dinner parties and anticipating the next uninspiring ball.
"I’m afraid he instructed us that he is not to be disturbed." The clerk’s gaze swept over her attire, lingering briefly on the plain cloak that concealed her fine clothing before shifting to the stern-faced footman standing silently at her side.
Whatever curiosity he had initially felt quickly gave way to open skepticism.
Cassandra regarded him with equal scrutiny.
Her expression never wavered as she assessed him in return, the two of them locked in a silent contest of wills in which neither seemed willing to yield first.
At last, she broke the silence.
"Very well. If he is half as important as you make him sound, you may inform him that Lady Cassandra Ashford requests an audience."
Since childhood, she had known precisely how much influence the Ashford name carried throughout Arden.
She knew the weight it held.
The doors it opened.
And she had long since stopped feeling guilty about using that influence whenever it served her purposes.
If nothing else, she considered it fair compensation for every disappointment and every heartache her parents had ever inflicted upon her.
The young clerk shifted uneasily.
"My lady... I truly don’t think—"
"I did not ask what you thought," she interrupted, her voice remaining perfectly level despite the unmistakable edge beneath it. "I would much prefer that you relay my words to Mr. Thornton."
The young man glanced uncertainly toward the corridor before releasing a quiet sigh of defeat.
"As you wish."
He disappeared through a doorway.
Several long minutes slipped by.
The sounds of quills scratching across parchment and presses thundering in the distance filled the silence, making the wait seem longer than it truly was.
At last, the clerk returned.
His reluctance had not diminished.
"This way, my lady." He said.
He led Cassandra through a narrow passage lined with shelves overflowing with ledgers, bundled newspapers, and stacks of correspondence waiting to be sorted.
Eventually, they stopped before a polished wooden door.
The clerk raised his hand and knocked softly.
"Sir... Lady Cassandra Ashford is here."
Barely a second passed before a voice answered from the other side.
"Send her in."
The clerk twisted the brass handle and stepped aside, gesturing for Cassandra—and her footman—to enter.
Mr. Thornton stood behind an orderly mahogany desk, his posture straight, his hands resting lightly against its polished surface.
His sharp, calculating eyes settled on Cassandra the very instant she crossed the threshold.
"My lady." He greeted her with a stiff smile, reeking of false politeness.
Cassandra fought the urge to scoff at his less-than-enthusiastic greeting. He was no doubt displeased by the fact that she had forced his clerk’s hand and compelled him to grant this abrupt meeting regardless of how he felt about it.
A faint smile stretched across her lips, knowing that before long she would give him even greater reason to be displeased.
But it could not be helped.
He would survive.
After all, it was not as though he was the first person to resent her, nor would he be the last.
Without acknowledging his greeting, Cassandra withdrew a neatly folded newspaper from within her cloak and laid it upon his desk, ensuring that the disparaging column about her faced upward.
"I apologize for my impromptu visit, but given the predicament in which I find myself, I fear such things can scarcely be helped. I’m here regarding a very serious matter, you see."
She tapped the newspaper twice, each measured tap slow and ominous before her finger came to rest between the words ’taciturn’ and ’duke’.
"You recall this particular publication, don’t you? It caused quite the stir throughout Caldor and in my life as well. Until now, I believed the gazette’s duty was simply to report the news. I never imagined that also involved peddling lies for the sake of profit."
Mr. Thornton’s gaze briefly dropped to the newspaper before returning to her face.
"I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re referring to," he said, feigning ignorance exactly as Cassandra had expected he would. "This establishment was built upon honesty and integrity. It is appalling that you would even come here and accuse us of something like—"
She raised a hand, effortlessly silencing him before more words could leave his mouth.
"Mr. Thornton, you are behaving awfully defensively for someone who claims to be completely oblivious. I have no time to waste debating what is and isn’t true with you, nor will I allow myself to be made a fool by the likes of you. I simply wish to know who wrote the column."
Her tone was chilling, every word delivered like hard punches.
Mr. Thornton swallowed hard.
His throat bobbed nervously, as though he were beginning to realize this would be far more difficult to escape than he had initially anticipated. Had Cassandra not been watching him so intently, she might have missed the subtle movement altogether.
"I’m afraid that information is confidential," he bit out.
"Do I look like I care?"
"My lady—"
"The writer’s name, Mr. Thornton." Her gaze sharpened. "I hate repeating myself."
Mr. Thornton slowly folded his hands, as though the imposing stance alone would protect him from her sharp dagger-like stares.
"The gazette has never published anything about you, my lady." He insisted.
"No?" Cassandra met his eyes without so much as a flicker. "You merely described my circumstances in such painstaking detail that every person in the capital reached the same conclusion entirely on their own. Not to mention the rather imaginative embellishments your writer saw fit to include."