GONG… GONG… GONG…
The deep, mournful chime of the grandfather clock in the main foyer echoed through the sleeping house. Twelve strokes. Midnight.
Ines stood, her hand on the brass knob of her bedroom door. The house was a tomb of silence, the air still and heavy. She was dressed in a royal blue blue nightgown and was ready for her lessons.
She slipped out of her room, a silent, blue-gray shadow in the moonlit hallway. She did not need a lamp. Her feet were bare on the thick carpet, making no sound. She knew this path. She had walked it in her mind a hundred times today.
Her thoughts were her only companion.
Today was... she searched for the word... productive.
She had, after the doctor had left, locked herself in her room. Edith had brought her a tray for luncheon, and she had barely touched it. She had written. And written.
"Today, I wrote three times more than usual," she thought, a small, secret smile touching her lips. "Plus the ones I had already written before."
