Evelyn
The city was bathed in the pale light of early autumn, leaves turning copper and gold along the grand avenues. Evelyn Vale had been restless that morning, longing for air beyond the confines of drawing rooms and committees. Adrian was away in council chambers, his speeches already reported in the morning papers.
She decided to take the carriage into the park.
The air was crisp, alive with the scents of damp earth and woodsmoke. She pressed one hand gently to her stomach, a small, unconscious gesture she made often now. The child stirred within her, and she smiled.
Opposite her sat her maid, chattering lightly about a market festival. Evelyn half-listened, her mind already on Adrian's return that evening. She would tell him about the walk, the leaves, the little flutter she had felt.
The carriage slowed suddenly.
"Broken cart ahead, my lady," the driver called. "We'll need to detour."
Evelyn leaned out slightly, nodding. The driver turned the horses down a narrower side street, quieter, lined with warehouses and iron lampposts. It was not a route she usually took, but she felt no alarm. The city was her home.
Then she saw her.
Clara Moreau, of all people, striding swiftly along the pavement, her green cloak billowing, eyes fixed ahead.
Evelyn's breath caught — not in jealousy, but in unease. The memory of their first encounter still pricked her. Clara seemed out of place here, alone, and walking as though pursued.
Before Evelyn could decide whether to call out, Clara stumbled.
It was almost absurdly ordinary: the catch of a heel on uneven cobblestones, the sharp gasp, the sudden flailing. But Clara lurched into the street just as a motorcar came roaring from around the bend.
The driver swerved, the horn blared — too late.
The motorcar skidded sideways, striking the side of Evelyn's carriage with a sickening crunch of wood and metal. Horses screamed, bolting. The maid shrieked. Evelyn was thrown violently against the door, glass shattering around her. Pain exploded in her chest, her vision swimming. She heard voices shouting, felt the carriage tilt.
And then — blackness.
Clara
Clara stumbled to her knees, heart hhammering. She had only wanted Evelyn to see her, to feel unsettled, to remember that Clara Moreau existed. The stumble, the motorcar — it had been chance, a terrible coincidence.
But as she lifted her eyes and saw Evelyn's crumpled figure pulled from the wreckage, pale and still, the truth struck her like ice.
This would not be seen as chance.
This would be the spark that shattered Adrian Vale's perfect world.
Adrian
Adrian reached the park too late.
He ran through the crowd that had gathered, people pressing back to let him through. For one breathless instant he thought she might stir, might open her eyes and scold him for arriving late.
But Evelyn's body lay motionless on the cobblestones, her dark hair sprawled out , her face serene in death. A single hand still rested protectively over her stomach.
Someone was sobbing. It might have been him.
Adrian fell to his knees beside her, the noise of the city dissolving into a dull roar in his ears. His wife, his anchor, his child — the very center of his world — gone in the space of a single moment.
And standing among the onlookers, cloaked in green, Clara Moreau lowered her eyes and wept convincingly, though her heart burned with something sharper than grief.
The accident would be reported as tragic misfortune. But in the shadows of New Albion, those who knew how to play the game understood: a queen had been removed from the board.
And Adrian Vale, once untouchable, was now a man undone.