4141.221 · August 9, 1821 AD
Midnight Departure
Some sounds don't belong. Jonathan Bates wakes in the stable loft to leather straps clinking, Midnight's muted snort, a voice pitched low with authority. Below, a cloaked figure emerges—wide-brimmed hat pulled low, features obscured, moving with intimate familiarity. Saddlebags bulge with carefully packed contents. This isn't theft. This is planned departure. In the shadows, Mabel Hawthorne watches too, returning from stolen kisses. Two witnesses. One midnight rider. And hoofbeats fading into darkness.
The sound pulls Jonathan from sleep—wrong, urgent, demanding attention. He's learned the stables' nocturnal vocabulary in six months of service: which horse snorts in sleep, which floorboard groans, how wind whispers through weatherboarding gaps. What he hears now doesn't belong.
Leather against buckle. Deliberate movement. Midnight's distinctive greeting—muted tonight, as if even the horse understands discretion. Jonathan presses against the frosted window. Below, a figure leads the stallion with expert familiarity. Wide-brimmed hat shadows their face. Dark cloak conceals build and bearing. But something in how they move—shoulders set with authority, confident handling of reins—tugs at recognition.
The saddlebags bulge. The movements speak of preparation, not impulse. This departure was planned.
In the gardens, Mabel Hawthorne presses against a eucalyptus tree, returning from forbidden romance. She watches the same scene unfold—the mounting with practiced grace, the scanning of manor windows, the controlled urgency. Close enough to hear leather creak and fabric whisper.
Then hoofbeats striking frozen cobblestones, sending sparks where iron meets stone. The rhythm of departure fading into darkness. Two witnesses holding unwanted knowledge.
Come morning, everything will be different.
