Ezra burst from her room, the small, heavy weight of the revolver and the prophecy scroll strapped beneath her skirt providing a cold, small comfort.
Her father, Mr. Finch, was already downstairs, looking less like a successful solicitor and more like a ruined man. He was fighting with two hired stablemen, shouting orders in hoarse, high-pitched demands as they struggled to hitch the family's modest Brougham to the nervous, single mare. The stablemen, hired for respectability, not speed, were clumsy and slow.
"Hurry, you dullards! We must be on the road before the full sun settles!" Mr. Finch roared, his wig slightly askew. He clutched a heavy, locked strongbox, clearly containing the family's liquid assets, which he refused to delegate to anyone.
Ezra spotted her younger sister, Clara, hovering by the drawing-room door, clad in a hastily donned day dress, her expression a mix of confusion and fear.
"Ezra, what is happening? Papa says we are visiting an aunt in the country, but he won't let me take my piano score—"
"Clara, this is not a visit," Ezra hissed, grabbing her sister's wrist and pulling her toward the front door. "We are fleeing. Leave the score. Take only what you can carry."
The usual silence of Rosewood Lane was already dissolving into nervous agitation. Servants, recognizing the frantic pace of their master, were whispering. The Finches were leaving, not in the stately order befitting their class, but in a panicked exodus. The abandonment of their respectable semi-detached villa—the visible symbol of their success—was itself an admission of profound failure and fear.
Mr. Finch finally wrenched the Brougham's door open. "Get in! Both of you! Mary, secure the back door, and pray that silence is enough to deter curiosity!"
Ezra shoved Clara into the cramped, upholstered interior, then climbed in herself. The Brougham was designed for quiet, respectable trips to the milliner, not a desperate flight. The three passengers were immediately jammed together, making the journey unbearably close.
With a loud crack of the whip, the stableman—now acting as driver—urged the mare into a jarring trot. The carriage lurched violently, throwing Mr. Finch against the closed window.
They sped down the quiet, tree-lined lane, the clatter of the horse's hooves and the rattle of the carriage wheels sounding deafeningly loud in the suburban calm. Mr. Finch was rigid with tension, constantly peering out the small, rear window.
"Faster! Faster!" he commanded, though the mare was already straining. "He is quick. His kind... they require no time for planning. If he suspects we flee Atheria—"
"He knows we are fleeing," Ezra stated, her voice surprisingly steady, despite the wild throbbing of her Vampire heart. "He made the chasm on the road, Father. He issued the warning. He already knows our intent."
Mr. Finch turned, his eyes wide with a manic blend of rage and despair. "You speak with such familiarity! Do you not understand that he is the danger? He wants the Creatrix Regium—the Fae-Witch sovereign! He believes you are her, Ezra! He will not stop until he has that power to consolidate his abominable claim!"
Clara gasped, covering her mouth with her hand. "The Creatrix Regium? Ezra?"
Ezra gripped the hand that held the Elixir Vitae and the prophecy scroll beneath her skirts. "I am simply Ezra, Clara. And a Vampire," she thought bitterly. "He is wrong. He is powerful, but flawed. We will escape this mistake."
But as the carriage finally turned onto the main road leading away from Rosewood Lane, Ezra looked back. She did not see her father's fear, or Clara's confusion. She saw the streetlamp outside their house, now dimming back to a normal gaslight flicker, its momentary, unnatural crimson flare gone.