The scent of burning wood woke Victoria from a fitful sleep.
She sat up, her heart pounding. The nursery door, which she kept slightly ajar, was glowing with an orange, flickering light. Smoke, thick and grey, curled along the ceiling of the East Wing bedroom.
“Fire!” Victoria screamed, scrambling out of bed. She grabbed her robe and ran toward the nursery. “Elena! William! Help!”
She reached the nursery door and threw it open. Inside, the crib–the beautiful walnut crib William had bought–was engulfed in flames. The heat was intense, singing her eyebrows.
“No!” she shrieked, backing away, covering her face. “The baby’s room! It’s on fire!”
Footsteps thundered down the hallway. William burst into the room, a fire extinguisher in his hand, his face pale with terror. Lady Beatrice followed close behind, leaning heavily on her cane.
William charged into the nursery, pulling the pin on the extinguisher.
He stopped.
The room was dark. The crib was pristine. There was no fire. There was no smoke. The air smelled only of lavender and beeswax polish.
“Victoria?” William lowered the extinguisher, confused. “Where is the fire?”
“It was right there!” Victoria sobbed, pointing at the crib. “It was burning! I saw the flames, I smelled the smoke!”
She looked frantically around the room. The smart-home projectors in the ceiling blinked once–a tiny red light that no one else noticed–before going dark. The holographic projection, orchestrated by Seraphina’s hackers, had vanished without a trace.
Lady Beatrice stepped forward, her face a mask of cold disappointment. She looked at the pristine crib, then at the trembling Victoria.
“First music that isn’t there,” Beatrice said, her voice like cracking ice. “Now fires that don’t exist. Hysteria is a dangerous thing for a pregnant woman, William. She is becoming a liability to herself.”
William looked at his wife, then at the empty room. The fear in his eyes wasn’t for the fire anymore; it was for her sanity.