Chapter 14
My gaze drifted to Poe.
The raven slept upon his perch like a small, shadowed sentinel. His head was tucked into the glossy fan of his breast, feathers rising and falling with a soft, rhythmic ease. For a heartbeat, envy prickled through me. How perfectly he surrendered to darkness, untroubled by visions or doubts or the weight of a house that watched as keenly as any beast.
Carefully, I rose from the chair. The floor was cold beneath my bare feet, each step deliberate, measured. I moved to the door and paused, glancing over my shoulder.
“Sleep well, Poe,” I whispered.
He didn’t stir.
With quiet precision, I turned the latch and eased the door open. The hinges gave a faint groan, thin but unbearably loud in the silence. I winced, waiting for someretaliation from the dark, but nothing stirred. So I slipped into the corridor and drew the door shut behind me.
The hallway stretched long and solemn before me. The sconces burned low, their flames guttering like fevered breaths. The light was thin and sickly, barely enough to illuminate the edges of the portraits that lined the walls.
I considered turning back.
But then I heard it.
A voice.
Clipped in that cold way only aristocratic women can manage.
It drifted upward from somewhere below.
I stilled, heart thudding in my throat.
Isolde.
Her tone was sharp, measured, hushed.
I crept forward, my hand skimming the wall for balance, the faint glow of the sconces guiding me to the staircase. The grand hall lay below, shrouded in darkness save for a thin bar of golden light spilling from beneath the heavy door to Sylum’s study.
Another voice answered her—lower, steady, and unmistakably Sylum’s.
My pulse quickened.
Careful as a mouse, I descended the stairs, each step a plea for silence. When I reached the bottom, I pressed close to the wall, hovering in the narrow cradle of shadow beside the study door.
“…you cannot keep her here,” Isolde hissed.
Her words were muffled but clear enough to chill me.
Sylum’s response came slower, his tone weary but resolute. “You will not speak of her that way. She is my wife.”
A long silence followed, broken only by the distant crackle of fire.
Then Isolde’s voice again, quieter this time, but full of venom. “You are a fool if you think affection will save her. You know what runs in her blood, Sylum. You weren’t there. You didn’t see her eyes… she was completely out of her senses.”
My breath caught. My fingernails dug into the doorframe.
A sudden crash that sounded like glass shattering against wood, jolted through the silence. I flinched as though shards had burst around me too.
“Madness is only excusable when one is titled and wealthy, is that it, Aunt?” Sylum’s voice was cold, low, and his words slurred slightly as if he’d had a bit too much to drink.
And then the dowager’s voice, colder still. “Madness is excusable when hidden, but you’ve brought it into your home. Into your name. And if the truth comes out, it will destroy you both.”
Sylum’s laugh was cold and cruel. “Madness lived in this house long before I married Lucy.” He paused, his voice strained with emotion when he next spoke.
