A terrible storm struck Lanark that night.
The four-beat gait of Adela's mare was almost soundless as it got absorbed by the wet grass paving her way, and the air before dawn was filled with a lingering earthy smell that rose up from the moist soil beneath Evita's hooves. But filling her lungs with the scent of Lanark was not invigorating, and the exhilaration that accompanied the run was short of its usual liberation.
Lady de Lanark felt constrained by the web of lies she knitted for her father, and as if stabbing the Archduke in the back by herself was not enough, Arkin and a recovering Larissa were giving her a hand with that.
Adela looked up at the sky transitioning from night to day — hazy lights of pink and red colored the endless horizon. It made her think about change in general and the one her life was taking. The man behind that change could have at least had the decency to ask one of the guards who stood by the borderline to accompany her inside.
