I didn’t move until the light beneath the door guttered out entirely.
Then I ran.
I ran through halls I didn’t know, down staircases that seemed to lean beneath my feet. I must have taken a wrong passage. Then another. Panic prickled beneath my skin.
When I finally rounded another corner, a sudden shape loomed out of the darkness.
“Your Grace?”
I gasped, stumbling backward as Mrs. Ashby materialized from the shadows, a solitary candle held aloft. Its flame carved hollows across her face, sharpening her cheekbones, deepening the furrow of her brow, and making her eyes appear like pits of cold iron.
“Mrs. Ashby,” I breathed, pressing a hand to my chest. “You startled me.”
Her gaze slid from my face down to the hem of my nightgown, rumpled and dust-stained. “I might say the same, Your Grace. What compels you to wander the halls at this hour?”
“I couldn’t sleep,” I commented lightly, though my voice trembled despite me. “I thought a short walk might clear my mind. I… got turned around.”
Her mouth thinned just slightly, the candlelight catching on the fine lines bracketing it. “Indeed. These halls are very easy to lose oneself in.”
Her tone was courteous. Her eyes were not. They watched me with a hunter’s patience as though marking each of my tremors, each of my breaths.
I swallowed. “I thought I heard His Grace speaking with someone. Down the hall.”
Mrs. Ashby stilled as though I’d struck her. Even the candle flame seemed to freeze.
“His Grace?” she repeated, soft as a blade sliding from its sheath. “You must be mistaken. His Grace retired some time ago. “His valet left him hours before I began my rounds.”
Her gaze lingered on me a heartbeat too long, assessing, dissecting. Then she offered a tight, mechanical smile. “You should return to your chamber, Your Grace. These corridors can be… treacherous in the dark.”
I nodded quickly, her subtle warning slithering down my spine.
“Of course.”
She turned, gesturing for me to follow, and together we walked the silent passageway back toward the west wing. I kept my eyes on the floor, afraid that if I looked up, I might see something I shouldn’t.
When we reached my door, Mrs. Ashby inclined her head. “Rest well, Your Grace.”
But as I slipped inside, I could still feel her eyes upon me through the crack, watching, waiting, as if to ensure I did not wander again.
The house was silent, but I could still hear my pulse beating in my ears like a drum.
Sylum.
What had he been discussing in secret at this hour? And with whom?
And why had Mrs. Ashby lied? I knew his voice… knew it was him…
Wasn’t it?
I climbed into bed, pulling the coverlet up to my chin. My mind circled the fragments of conversation, fitting them together like broken porcelain. None of it made sense, and yet dread gnawed at the edges of my reason.
I must have dozed, though I didn’t remember slipping into sleep. My body lay heavy, cocooned in warmth. The line between dream and waking blurred.
Then came the sound.
Faint at first, like a sigh. Then again. A long, shuddering exhale that grew into a soft, muffled sob.
I sat up, my pulse hammering.
