She careened into the road—someone shouted. Horses whinnied, and she whirled to see flying hooves and a huge carriage bearing down at her. Crying out, she jumped back, and the carriage passed by her so close, she could feel the suction of the air. Her lungs heaved. She used to be able to outrun any boy in the village, and now look at her. Her throat was burning from frantic breathing as she stumbled through the gateposts of the house. “Sophie?” It was Cary. He was walking down his drive, and now he ran toward her. He must be going toward the park to meet the Fiery Rose at seven o’clock. He was innocent. He had to be. But what if—what if he were hanged for this? Panic and shock and horror all exploded in her. She ran at him and grasped his arms. In front of his house, he folded her into his embrace. “Sophie, what’s wrong?” “The woman you were going to meet is dead. She’s by the Serpentine. She’s lying in the grass. And she’s holding a note from you. She was strangled.
