A breeze stirred the curtain. Outside, the wind moved through the trees with a sound like breath drawn in but never released.
Eliza stared into the dark.
“Where did you go?” she whispered. The question hung between the walls like the echo of a breath, waiting for someone who would not answer.
The room did not answer.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The morning sunfell across the long table in the breakfast room, soft and golden, too warm for the mood it illuminated. The light touched silver and porcelain, glinted off the rim of the butter dish, but none of it reached the hearts of the people seated at the table. The tea had gone cold. The toast sat untouched. Ravenstock was not a house at rest. It was a house holding its breath, waiting for its walls to whisper something useful.
Eliza sat beside an empty place, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, knuckles white against her gloves. Her cup of tea had cooled, untouched, the rim stained faintly with the mark of her first sip. She did not remember taking it. Her shoulders were set, spine straight, but her eyes had the dazed softness of someone trying to remember what normal used to feel like. The tick of the longcase clock in the hall was louder than usual. Somewhere upstairs, a door creaked, then fell silent again. Even the fire burned softly, as if afraid to intrude.
Across from her, Barrington stood near the fireplace, unreadable, the fingers of one hand curled loosely around a folded letter. He read it, then read it again, as if willing the words to change. They did not. His other hand was closed, his knuckles pale, as if he’d forgotten he was still holding something.
Alex sat with his back half-turned from the table, one arm braced against the chair beside him. He had poured a cup of coffee and forgotten it. The dark surface had gone still, reflecting his hollowed features. His riding boots were still dusted with the road. He had notslept. Not really. His gaze drifted, unfocused, toward the window, although he wasn’t watching the wind. He was listening for a footfall that never came.
The quiet was not companionable. It was cavernous.
Then came footsteps. Light, well-measured.
Everly arrived late. Apologetic. Breezy.
“Forgive me,” he said, brushing imagined dust from his coat. “I stopped at the harbor this morning to speak with a contact. No word yet, but I’m hopeful.”
Hopeful. The word struck like glass against stone.
He took the empty chair beside Eliza with practiced grace. She offered him a tired smile because it would have been rude not to. She had spent the morning fighting back the tremor in her hands. His voice, so calm, so easy, was almost a relief. Until it wasn’t.
The room tried to resume the rhythm of polite conversation. Barrington asked about the weather, and someone remarked on the wind picking up, but every word fell like a feather into water, vanishing without a ripple or a reply. No one spoke of Georgina. No one dared.
A footman entered with a fresh pot of tea. His heel caught on the rug, and he stumbled, not badly, but enough to jostle the tray.
A splash of tea landed across Eliza’s sleeve.
She gasped, dabbing at the fabric with her napkin, but Everly rose at once. “Allow me.”
He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a square of pale linen.
He handed it to her, unthinking.
Eliza took it, grateful, then froze.
Her eyes dropped to the corner. Fine stitching. Cream silk thread. Two letters: G. R.
For a beat, the world slowed.
“I meant to return it,” Everly said easily. “She dropped it at the bookshop last week. By the time I reached the door, she was alreadygone.”
Eliza looked up at him, searching his face.
He gave her a small smile. Calm. Undisturbed.
“I’m glad it found its way home.”
She forced a nod, murmured her thanks, and turned back to her tea.
Her fingers trembled against the porcelain. She didn’t drink. Couldn’t.
