(3) THE FIRST VERSE: ESCAPE TO THE CITY

The morning sun, usually a welcome intrusion filtering gold through the lace curtains of the manor, felt cold and judgmental to Amy. Her shift began with the same ritual it had for the last five years: a hushed ascent of the grand staircase, the silver service clinking almost imperceptibly on the tray, and the three gentle knocks on Lady Zaria’s door.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
“Good morning, my lady. I’ve brought the Assam, just the way you like it. And a fresh brioche from the kitchen this morning.” Amy spoke in a low, warm tone, a professional sweetness that masked the frantic, protective love she felt for the volatile young woman behind the oak.
Usually, there was a muffled, petulant groan, a rustle of silk sheets, and then Zaria’s sleepy, almost childlike voice: “Leave it by the window, Amy. I’ll starve before I move a muscle.”
But this morning, there was nothing. Only the silence of the immense room, a silence that seemed to absorb the light and sound like a heavy velvet curtain.
Knock. Knock. A little louder this time. A nervous ripple started in Amy’s stomach.
“My lady? Are you quite well?”
Still nothing.
Amy shifted the heavy tray. Zaria was unpredictable, yes, but she was never silent. When she wanted to be left alone, she would snap an order through the door that left no room for misinterpretation. This emptiness was far worse. A sudden, sharp memory of Zaria’s restless, wide-eyed look from the night before—a look Amy knew meant a scheme was brewing—clamped down on her chest.
“I’m coming in, my lady,” Amy announced, her voice trembling just slightly, already fumbling for the key she kept for emergencies.

The room was bathed in the thin morning light, meticulously ordered in a way that immediately screamed wrong. Zaria was a chaos magnet; her clothes were always draped over a chair, books were scattered face-down on the rug, and the pillows were rarely on the bed.

But the rug was clear. The chair was empty. And the bed…
Amy hurried to the four-poster. The duvet was pulled up and smoothed in a way that was too perfect, creating a suspicious, body-shaped mound that promised slumber. Relief, fleeting and potent, washed over her. She’s just deep asleep.
Amy reached out and grasped the edge of the heavy, silk-lined blanket. “My lady, you simply must get up. Your mother has requested you attend breakfast.”
She gave a firm, quick pull.
The duvet slid back with a sigh, not a whisper, a sound that felt like a breath leaving the room.
There was no Zaria.
The elaborate deception was instantly revealed: two plump pillows lay side-by-side where Zaria's head should have been, covered only by a tangle of silk pajamas and a dressing gown, arranged artfully to give the illusion of a sleeping form.
Amy’s breath hitched—a silent, painful gasp. The tea tray crashed onto the carpet. Porcelain shattered, and the fragrant Assam stained the Persian rug, the dark liquid spreading like a slow-motion bruise.
She wasn’t focused on the mess or the inevitable lecture from Mrs. Davies, the housekeeper. Her gaze was locked onto the crumpled pile of clothes at the foot of the bed.
It was Zaria’s favorite riding habit—the one she complained restricted her movement—discarded as if in a violent hurry. Tucked between the folds of the deep blue wool was a small, hastily scrawled note.
Amy snatched it up, her hands shaking so badly she almost tore the delicate paper.
Don’t worry, Amy. I just went to the City for some fresh air. Don’t tell my parents.
For your profit, you can take those sweets that I bought for you from Osborne’s last week. They’re in the vanity drawer. Tell them I have a terrible migraine.
Amy sank onto the edge of the empty mattress, the cold absence of Zaria stinging her palms. The sheer audacity of the girl! “Fresh air.” The City was a four-hour carriage ride away! And the parents? Lord and Lady Thornton would have Amy stripped of her wages and thrown out before noon if they knew their willful daughter had absconded.
Her eyes drifted to the window. It was slightly ajar, the heavy brocade curtain swaying gently in the morning draft, hinting at the path of escape.

Just a little earlier…
Zaria swung her legs out the window, the chill of the dawn air hitting her face with the shock of a cold shower. She had spent the last hour weaving the rope herself—mostly old, discarded bedsheets and a few heavy sashes tied in what she hoped were sturdy knots.
The descent began easily, fueled by the adrenaline of rebellion. She was a bird finally leaving the cage. Freedom!
Then, she looked down.
The ground seemed to have dropped away, leaving a vast, dark chasm where the safe green lawn used to be. The third floor suddenly felt like the summit of an unscalable mountain.
A paralyzing wave of vertigo hit her. Zaria, the brave, the impetuous, the girl who would argue with her father's investors, was terrified of heights. She squeezed her eyes shut, a small, involuntary whimper escaping her lips.
“No, no, no,” she muttered, trying to steady herself against the cold stone of the wall. “This is ridiculous. I’m a Thornton. Thorntons don’t fall. Thorntons don’t…”
SNAP.
The sound was sharp, brittle, and terrifyingly close. The section of sash she was clutching stretched and then partially tore. Her weight immediately shifted, and she slammed against the wall, skinning her elbow.
The knots! They were never supposed to bear this much weight. She had used the decorative silk sashes from the old drawing-room curtains—pretty, but woefully unreliable. Now, the rope was fraying aggressively just above her head, the last few strands holding on by sheer luck.
Zaria realized she was only about ten feet from the ground—a distance she could have jumped easily in daylight, but one that seemed a lethal drop in the pre-dawn gloom, especially with a crumbling lifeline.
Tears of fear and bitter self-recrimination welled up. This is it. I’m going to die for a terrible choice of escape material.
The fraying accelerated. She heard the zipp of silk fibers parting.
“Oh, God, no, no, no! Please, God!” Zaria squeezed her eyes shut, her grip slipping. Her prayer started to take a truly ridiculous turn, fueled by panic and a lifetime of repressed guilt.
“Dear Lord, I promise! I will stop stealing biscuits from the pantry! I’ll be nice to Rupert’s spaniel, even though it’s foul-tempered! Just—just let me land without breaking my neck, and I will be the most tedious, obedient daughter the county has ever known!”
She waited for the pain, a wild, chaotic mix of fear and prayer echoing in her mind. Then, the rope gave way completely.

AAAA..... screamed Zaria....