Page 73 of Duke of Myste
“Jane,” Richard breathed, the name emerging like a prayer torn from his very soul.
He approached Pandora carefully, his hands steady despite the fear coursing through him like liquid fire. The mare allowed him to catch her reins, though she shied nervously at his touch—behavior that spoke of recent trauma.
“Richard?” Harriet’s voice sounded distant, though she stood just behind him. “Where is Jane?”
That was the question that was tearing through Richard’s mind like a malicious, destructive tumor. Where was his wife? If Pandora was here, riderless and panicked, where was the woman who had ridden out atop her that morning with anxiety clouding her judgment and love filling her heart?
“Spread out,” he commanded, his voice steady despite the chaos in his mind. “Search the area. She can’t be far.”
“Richard—” Harriet began, but he was already moving, leading Pandora toward a copse of trees that bordered the road.
The mare’s distressed state told a story Richard didn’t want to read. Her coat was damp with sweat, her eyes still wide with residual panic, and there were scratches along her flanks that suggested a hasty passage through the undergrowth. Whatever had spooked her had done so violently enough to unseat Jane.
“Steady, girl,” he murmured, running his hands along the mare’s neck as he searched for clues about what might have happened.
The mare’s breathing was gradually returning to normal, but she shied away from certain sounds—the rustle of leaves, the distant call of a bird—in a way that spoke of trauma.
Richard bent down, examining the ground where the mare stood, noting the churned earth that suggested a struggle. Hoofprints told part of the story—a normal walking pace that suddenly became a frantic scramble, deep gouges in the soft earth where Pandora had reared or spun in terror.
“Your Grace!” called the coachman from further down the road. “There’s something here!”
Richard’s heart lurched as he jogged toward the man’s voice, leaving the horse with Harriet.
Please let it not be blood.Please let it not be?—
“Boot prints, Your Grace,” the coachman said, pointing to a clear impression in the soft earth beside the road. “Small ones, like a lady might wear. And see here—something disturbed the undergrowth.”
Richard knelt beside the tracks, his trained eye reading the story they told. Jane’s boots had left deep impressions here, as though she had been walking quickly, or perhaps stumbled. The surrounding grass was flattened in a pattern that suggested she had been thrown clear off the road, perhaps landing hard enough to roll several feet.
“The trail leads toward those oak trees,” Harriet observed, having approached quietly while Richard examined the evidence. Her voice was carefully controlled, but he could hear the fear beneath her composure.
He rose, following the disturbed vegetation with growing urgency. Every broken branch, every flattened patch of grass brought him closer to answers he desperately needed and simultaneously dreaded.
The trail was becoming clearer now—Jane had definitely left the road, whether by choice or by the force of her fall. Richard’s mind raced with possibilities, each more frightening than the last.
Had she been thrown immediately when Pandora spooked? Had she managed to maintain her seat initially, only to be unseated when the horse tried to navigate the underbrush?
“Jane!” Richard called, his voice carrying across the small, wooded area. “Jane, can you hear me?”
Silence answered him, broken only by the rustle of leaves in the afternoon breeze and the distant din of traffic on the main road.
His chest tightened with each step that brought no response to his calls.
“Richard, over here!” Harriet’s voice carried a note of alarm that made his heart stutter.
He found his sister standing beside a large oak tree, her face pale as she pointed toward something behind the massive trunk. His heart stopped entirely as he followed her gaze.
A single, torn piece of blue fabric—the same shade as Jane’s riding habit—was caught on a low branch, fluttering like a banner of distress in the air. The ground beneath showed clear signs of impact, and there were scuff marks on the bark that suggested something had hit it with considerable force.
“She’s here somewhere,” Richard said, his voice hoarse with emotion he could no longer contain. “She has to be close. Keep looking!”
The search began in earnest now, Richard’s careful examination of evidence abandoned in favor of desperate urgency, though each step felt like an eternity.
Every shadow might conceal Jane’s fallen form, every rustle of leaves might signal her attempt to call for help. His hands shook as he pushed aside undergrowth, and his breathing became labored with fear rather than exertion.
“Jane!” he called again, louder this time, his voice cracking on her name. “Please, darling, if you can hear me?—”
Then, he saw her.
