Tomorrow's Crimes ll Moriarty the Patriot

The Curious Matter of the Lady's Letters - Pt. 1

3 Days after the Garden Party Incident

The night pressed heavily against the windows, moonlight filtering through in thin, silvery streams that did little to combat the darkness. Adelaide had lost track of how long she'd been lying there, counting heartbeats, measuring time by the steady parade of footsteps outside her door. Her throat burned with thirst, her lips cracked and bleeding when she ran her tongue across them. Even breathing hurt now.

She knew their pattern by heart: the guards changed shifts every four hours, marked by the cathedral bells in the distance. Lady Catherine made her rounds at eight and again at midnight, her silk skirts whispering against the floorboards like accusations. James appeared randomly, his presence announced by the sharp tap of his walking stick and the way the servants' footsteps quickened in his wake. The maids came three times a day with meals she couldn't touch, their steps quick and frightened, like mice scurrying past a sleeping cat.

But these footsteps were different.

Adelaide lifted her head slightly from the carpet, every muscle protesting the movement. These steps were familiar—lighter, more hesitant, with the slight scuff of worn shoes that the housekeeper was always scolding about. Martha.

Her heart began to race. She had been waiting, praying that Martha would be the one they sent tonight. It had to be tonight. Tomorrow would be too late.

The footsteps paused outside her door, followed by the soft thud of something being set down—a tray, perhaps, or a pitcher. Then came a sound that made Adelaide's chest tighten: a muffled sob.

"My lady?" Martha's whisper was barely audible, choked with tears. "I've brought you some water."

Adelaide gathered what little strength remained in her body, dragging herself across the floor toward the door. Every movement was agony; days of neglect had left her muscles stiff and weak. She had to press her sleeve against her mouth to muffle her own groans of pain.

"My lady?" Martha called again, her voice breaking. "Please... please say something if you can hear me..."

Finally reaching the door, Adelaide pressed herself against the crack beneath it. "Martha," she breathed, her voice so rough she barely recognized it. "Don't make a sound. Please."

The sob that had been building in Martha's throat caught with an audible gasp. There was a sudden rustle of skirts—Martha dropping to her knees, Adelaide guessed. "Oh, thank heavens," Martha whispered. "My lady, you're alive. They wouldn't let any of us see you, and there were such horrible sounds last night—"

"Shh," Adelaide cautioned, pressing closer to the gap. Every word felt like swallowing glass, but she forced them out. "Martha, listen carefully. I need your help. I know it's dangerous—it may be the most dangerous thing I've ever asked of you—but you're the only one I can trust."

There was a long, heavy silence, shattered only by the sound of Martha's uneven breathing. Finally, her voice—thin, trembling—broke through.

"Anything, my lady," she whispered, her words thick with emotion. "What they're doing to you... it's not right. Mrs. Potter says it's for your own good, that you're not well, but I've seen—" Her voice faltered, then cracked. "It's not right, what they're doing to you."

The words hung in the air, and her sobs, soft and broken, filled the space between them.

"Martha," Adelaide interrupted, her heart pounding faster. Down the hall, she could hear voices—servants, probably, but any interruption now would be disastrous. "There's no time. The guards will be back soon." She fumbled beneath her torn dress, where she'd kept the package hidden since the last time they'd searched her room. The bundle of letters was thick, bound tightly with a faded blue ribbon she'd salvaged from her drawers. Her hands trembled as she carefully worked it through the gap beneath the door.