“No,” he said at last, after a long, measured moment. “But… it is possible she would have one in her possession. When Lydia came to Blackthorn, I gave her a box of my mother’s jewelry. She might have found a lock of hair there.” He paused, his voice softening. “My mother was quite sentimental.”
“I see,” I murmured.
I watched him. Closely.
He watched me back.
“It’s strange, though,” I added lightly, as though thinking aloud rather than interrogating him. “The hair looked… darker than yours. Not by much but… just enough to notice.”
I tilted my head. “Almost as if it belonged to someone else entirely.”
Sylum went still.
Not for long, only a heartbeat, but long enough for me to take notice.
“My hair was much darker when I was young,” he answered finally. “Nearly black, in fact. It has lightened over the years.”
A single thread of discomfort tugged at the base of his throat, tightening the muscle ever so slightly.
I smiled as though I believed him. “Oh. Well that does make sense then.”
His posture eased as he leaned forward, forearms braced upon the table. His gaze softened again, earnest and intent. “Lucy… what is this about? If something troubles you… if there is anything you need clarification on, I want you to know you can ask me anything.”
I hesitated.
The memory of Sylum taking the locket from my hands pulsed at the base of my skull, half-formed and refusing to settle into truth or dream.
“I believe I took the locket,” I said. But when I saw… when I thought I saw you, you took it from me. Was that real?”
A brief moment of something unreadable crossed his face.
But before he could answer, movement at the edge of my vision stole my attention. I turned sharply toward the tall windows, heart leaping into my throat.
And there, pressed against the glass just beyond the candle glow, a face stared back at me.
Sylum’s face.
I was certain of it, though something felt off about it.
The features were wrong, pallid as if drained of blood, the eyes too dark, swallowing the whites entirely. And the smile, a terrible, stretching thing, was almost sinister.
A strangled gasp tore from my throat.
My chair scraped violently as I shot to my feet, bumping the table so hard that dishes toppled. Wine spilled in a crimson arc across the linen, darkening like fresh blood.
“Oh!” My shaking hands scrambled to set the glass upright.
“Lucy?” Sylum was beside me instantly, his voice taut with concern as he reached to steady me. “Lucy, what is it? What happened?”
“I… there!” I pointed wildly at the window, breath stuttering against my ribs. “There was… someone. Someone outside.”
Sylum turned at once, crossing the room. His stride was swift, certain. He seized the handle of the French doors, flung them open, and stepped out onto the terrace. Cold night air surged into the room, smelling of damp stone and frozen earth.
He scanned the grounds.
Nothing but moonlight and rolling fog.
After a moment, he turned back to me, brow furrowed with confusion and worry.
