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The evening waxed, then fell away with the dripping of candlewax on to the polished wood of the fashionable furniture. 

It was earlier than the appropriate hour when she rang for supper. No doubt this would subject her reputation to the sniggers and speculation of the serving people, but she found she could not care.
She ate slowly, and by the time she finished, her eyelids were heavy from a day spent too much indoors, her body sinking into inactivity. It would not do to be found dozing and vulnerable when Forthenby returned. 

So it was that Serafina rang for her maid, who came bright-eyed and busy, expecting to find Milady dressing for a late ball, or some such entertainment. 

Instead, Serafina dissembled, fabricating reasons to keep the girl in the room, wittering about the opera the next night, about how she wished to show herself to her best advantage, asking for advice she barely heeded on jewels, gowns, mantillas and other such fripperies. 

Only when Laurette repeated for the fourth time that Milady must wear the emeralds with her taffeta, and the rose diamonds with the brocade, did Serafina finally consent to understand that her servant was tired and bored and that, unless she wanted to be stabbed with a hairpin – entirely by accident, Milady, my apologies – before the next soiree, she should permit her to go to bed. 

She relented, asking if My Lord was...

Milord was not returned. And there was a look of arch pity in those sparkling eyes, inviting a confidence that Serafina did not know how to share.

Trying to smile, and knowing that she failed, Serafina dismissed the girl and huddled up in the armchair beside a fire that had been banked some hours before, insisting that she would not sleep, that she would only read. Taking up a comforting novel, she glanced at the close, black type and...

                            ...was woken by carousing voices, the sound of doors being slammed. Rubbing her eyes, she looked at the fire fallen low, the book slipping from her hands, the soreness in her neck. Fuddled by sleep for a moment, she did not truly understand what she was hearing, until there came the sound of a strap or a belt, slamming in to skin with vicious speed. 

Her hand went to her mouth and her shoulders came forward. 

The thrashing was swift and savage, done without insults, anger, or pause. The victim did not cry out. 

Serafina flinched at each impact, beginning to tremble at the mere thought of it. Her poor brother William always wailed when he was beaten. Wailed as though his heart was breaking. 

No. She would not permit it. She was up and across the room, her feet bare, her hand upon her scissors – feeble a weapon as they might be – but the door to Forthenby’s apartments was locked and her hand was shaking as she raised it to knock. 

Then, through the wood, she heard the grunts and moans of animal lust that came from behind it. A voice, not one she recognised, said, “I want you to hold it upright, but do it so it hurts.”

Serafina pressed her palms together as though in prayer. There were two of them. Two monsters in that room, with some poor wretch, suffering in their power. 

She should knock, should barge her way in, scream and fight and try to wrest their victim from them. 

She remembered the force of Lord Forthenby’s arms, the violence in his voice, and her fingers.

So, Serafina Valance put her hands over her ears and ran back to her room, where she lay in her cold bed, restless and sleepless, alone with her cowardice.