And yet the fact remained: she had been using the servant’s stair… and so had he, and all because of a blasted dog.
He frowned, irritated at the way it refused to resolve into sense. Fatigue muddled the edges of thought; conjecture bred conjecture. Whatever Brutus had perceived—whatever had drawn both master and guest away from the ordinary paths of the house—it would bear examination.
Tomorrow.
He would think more clearly tomorrow.
Darcy returned to the desk and opened the book again, this time with intent. He read more carefully, noting every reference to altered ground, every passing mention of boundaries observed by tradition rather than deed. The entries were scattered, unconnected, never lingered over—but they were there.
Always there.
Brutus lowered himself at last, settling beside the desk, head resting on his paws—but his eyes did not close.
Darcy straightened slowly.
He did not think of curses. He did not think of magic. He did not think of half-remembered ballads fit only for antiquarians and children.
He thought of stewardship. Of land held in trust.
Of rules established so long ago that forgetting them felt like progress.
“No,” he said under his breath, not to the dog, nor to the book, but to the rising unease he refused to indulge. “I will not be made a fool of.”
Brutus’s ears flicked.
Darcy closed the book with care this time and carried it to the mantel to place it beside a few other volumes full of nonsense. He extinguished the candle, one deliberate pinch of fingers, and crossed back to the bed.
Chapter Thirteen
Elizabeth woke before thehouse had fully agreed to morning.
The light lay pale and undecided upon the ceiling, caught between night’s retreat and day’s arrival. For a moment, she remained where she was, eyes open, breathing shallowly, taking stock not of her surroundings but of herself.
No dizziness. No trembling. No sense ofwrongnessdarkening the corners of her thoughts. That was promising.
She sat up. The movement brought a brief rush of warmth to her face, a delay between intention and action that irritated her more than it alarmed her. Elizabeth waited it out, hands resting lightly upon the coverlet, gaze fixed on the far wall until the room settled back into proper proportion.
Very well, then.
She rose, crossed to the washstand, and splashed cool water upon her face. The mirror above it reflected a young woman pale enough to invite remark, but not so altered as to provoke alarm. Her eyes were clear. Her mouth firm. She would do.
Except, perhaps getting up was a mistake.
The thought had barely formed when sound reached her—footsteps, easy and unhurried, not the brisk purpose of a servant but the lighter, familiar tread she knew too well. Jane. Coming down the corridor, humming under her breath.
Elizabeth crossed the room in two quick strides, the hem of her nightgown brushing her ankles as she reached the bed and slipped beneath the coverlet, tugging it into place. Her bare feet were still chilled when she turned onto her side, schooling her breath, softening her posture, letting the moment of motion drain from her limbs as though it had never occurred. She had no wish to explain herself half-dressed and fully alert.
The door handle twisted.
Elizabeth wormed under the blankets, slowly, deliberately, letting her breath deepen as if drawn from sleep. She turned her face toward the pillows and allowed her shoulders to slacken a fraction. The door opened.
“Lizzy?”
Jane’s voice carried relief tempered with caution, as though she were afraid of startling something fragile back into breaking. Elizabeth waited a heartbeat longer before answering.
“Mmm?” she murmured, pitching it low and unguarded. “Is it morning already?”
Jane crossed the room at once. Elizabeth felt the mattress dip as her sister sat beside her, felt the familiar weight of Jane’s attention settle over her like a coverlet.
