The grandfather clock in the hall ticked.
Tick.Tock. Tick. Tock.
It was a slow, heavy, rhythmic sound that usually faded into the background of the Hamilton estate. But tonight, in the suffocating silence of Ines's bedroom, it sounded like a hammer striking an anvil. Every second was a reminder of time passing. Every second was a reminder of time wasted.
Ines lay on her bed, her body sprawled atop the silk coverlet. She hadn't bothered to get under the blankets. The night was warm, or perhaps it was just the restless heat in her own blood that made the air feel heavy.
She stared up at the intricate plaster molding of the ceiling. The moonlight streamed through the tall, uncurtained window, casting long, pale bars of silver across the floor. It looked like a prison cell.
"It has only been a week," she whispered to the empty room.
Her voice sounded small and pathetic in the darkness.
