The betrayal came from a man Nathaniel Cross had trusted for years—a stable supervisor who knew when horses were saddled, which roads the household used, and where guards changed shifts.
He had not joined the conspiracy out of ideology. He joined because debt made him purchasable.
That distinction offered no comfort when armed riders intercepted the group outside a cedar grove.
The attack was brief and chaotic. Nathaniel Cross's driver was wounded. The register disappeared during the struggle. Eleanor Whitcombe was nearly pulled from the carriage before Isaiah Green struck the attacker with an iron lantern base.
They escaped only because the horses bolted down a logging track too narrow for the pursuing wagon.
Hours later, hidden in an abandoned church, Nathaniel Cross discovered the worst part.
The stolen register had been a copy.
Eleanor Whitcombe had secretly removed the original page and sewn it inside the hem of Isaiah Green's skirt before they left the counting house.
For the first time since her rescue, Nathaniel Cross laughed.
Eleanor Whitcombe did not.
“They will think they won,” she said. “Let them.”
Now the conspiracy believed the strongest evidence recovered so far was back in its hands.
That false confidence became their advantage.
The mistake cost them time, papers, and nearly a life. Afterward, trust became a resource they measured carefully. The betrayal came from someone close enough to know their route and cautious enough to hide resentment. No villain needed magic when ordinary greed could open gates from the inside. The woman watched every face now, measuring fear, loyalty, and the small signs of betrayal. By then, even ordinary paperwork seemed capable of carrying a hidden threat across county lines. The humid night pressed close around the house as everyone weighed what came next. Still the road ahead held questions.