“Impressive,” I marveled.
“I know,” Vail responded, and we stood huddled together looking out.
Donovan and Sam got out of the van and stood there for a moment talking to each other. I strained my hearing, focusing on what they were saying.
“Go in,” Sam told Donovan.
“No way, man. This was your idea. You go in.” Donovan crossed his arms.
I looked at Vail, raising my eyebrows, but her attention was still focused through the bricks.
“Okay, let’s do rock, paper, scissors,” Sam suggested.
Donovon lost and huffed under his breath before jumping into the dumpster. After a moment, Donovan emerged carrying a body slumped over his shoulder. I stood, paralyzed by shock, and I turned to Vail, whose wide-eyed expression mirrored my own.
Vail’s hands covered her mouth, and I could hear her desperate whispers. “Please don’t let that be George, please don’t let that be George …”
But the dread settled in me as I recognized the familiar long hair and denim jacket. It was no doubt, George.
Donovan placed George’s body in the back of the van, and they drove away. “No,” I whispered, shaking my head and looking at Vail.
She was biting her bottom lip to keep it from trembling. “Let’s go,” she said and whipped open the door with such strength I thought she was going to rip it off its hinges.
“Where?” I asked as I followed her out of the alley. Vail, fueled by a resolute purpose, walked ahead of me.
“We have to follow them,” she declared, running out of the bar before I could even protest.
FOURTEEN
March 17, 1891
His arms traced the contours of my body, his hands running down my spine. He lowered, bringing his mouth to my skin, and a soft moan escaped my lips. I felt a rush of heat as Draven’s mouth trailed kisses along the delicate curve of my chin, making his way down my neck before gently sinking his teeth into my flesh.
I woke with a start, my heart hammering in my chest. My hand instinctively pressed to my throat as if to silence the phantom touch of his lips, the remnants of a dream too vivid, too real. I was alone. The soft, golden light of morning stretched across the room, painting the walls in gentle hues. But the warmth of the sun couldn’t chase away the shame that flooded through me. I felt it flush my cheeks, hot and overwhelming. How could I let my thoughts drift to Draven in such an intimate way? I barely knew him. He was still a stranger.
My thoughts felt muddled, my skin too warm, too tight. I needed air. I pushed myself out of bed and moved to the balcony doors. As I opened them, a cool morning breeze swept in, clearing the fog that clung to my mind. The fresh air felt like a balm on my overheated skin, and I stepped out onto the small balcony, grateful for the change of scenery.
Thornwood Manor sprawled below me, cradled by the dense forest surrounding it. The trees stood like silent sentinels, protecting the mansion from the world beyond. From this height, I could see the town below, the distant plumes of smoke rising from chimneys, winding through the crisp morning air. I hadn’t realized how close I was to Elmcross. To my old life. The thought was like a pinprick to my chest. I looked down at the garden below, now overgrown and neglected, and showing the clear passage of time.
Shaking these melancholic thoughts from my mind, I turned back to my room, closing the balcony doors behind me. I opened the wardrobe, revealing a range of soft, gemstone-coloured dresses. My fingers traced the intricate, ornate details of the fabric, marvelling at the luxurious textures beneath my touch. I settled on a deep green dress, one that emphasized my collarbone and cinched tightly at the waist. The row of buttons running down the front and the velvet trim made it feel like a garment from a world I didn’t fully belong to. I considered leaving my hair down—remembering Draven’s comment about it—but ultimately decided against it. My hair would only get in the way. I pinned it up, my fingers working automatically, my thoughts still lingering on him.
After I was dressed, I descended the grand staircase, my footsteps echoing in the silence of the mansion. I made my way into the dining room, hoping, foolishly, to find Draven there. But I knew it was too late. He had left for work.
Imalda was already at the table, arranging my breakfast. I forced a smile as I took my usual seat, the long, polished table stretching before me.
“Good morning,” I greeted her.
“Morning, miss,” Imalda replied, her gaze lingering on me. Her eyes were sharp, studying me in a way that felt critical.
I shifted uncomfortably in my chair, acutely aware of how odd it was to be the only one seated at such a vast table. The emptiness around me felt suffocating. “I was hoping Draven would still be here to show me the garden,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.
“Mister Blackwell departs early,” Imalda replied without looking up. “Although you are more than welcome to explore it on your own.”
“Who tends to it?” I asked, leaning back in my chair, my eyes wandering toward the window, though the garden was hidden from view.
“No one has cared for it in quite some time. Mister Blackwell rarely entertains long-term guests,” Imalda explained matter-of-factly, though there was a subtle emphasis on the wordslong-term gueststhat sent a shiver of unease through me.
I fumbled with the edge of my dress, feeling the crinkle of paper in my pocket. I pulled out the letter I had written to Vail, handing it to Imalda. “Would you mind taking this to Elmcross for me?”
