“Lucy,” he repeated, voice heavy with pity, “there’s nothing.”
I stared at the empty table. I stared until tears blurredmy vision.
I wanted to scream.
Dearest reader,
I did not, in fact, scream.
I did not claw at the walls or collapse into hysterics as one might expect of a woman confronted with the sudden absence of her own certainty.
Instead, I did what any sane and rational person would do in that moment.
I lifted my chin and I smiled.
I told my husband that he was quite right. I said—very calmly—that it had all been a dream. A vivid one, yes. Disturbingly so. But only a dream.
I laughed, lightly, even apologetically, and told him that I had always been susceptible to such things. That my mind had an unfortunate habit of stitching together imagination and memory when overtired. That the manor was unfamiliar, the day had been long, and that the stress of his aunt’s arrival itself had unsettled me more than I cared to admit.
I told him that the garden, the kiss, the tea—none of it had truly happened. I said that dreams have a way of borrowing faces we love and voices we trust. That they feel real because they want to.
I told him my fear had dressed itself in his likeness because it knew no other shape strong enough to frighten me.
He watched me closely as I spoke, his eyes searching my face for cracks in the performance.
I made sure there were none.
I even reached for his hand with steady fingers and held it until his concern softened into relief.
I assured him I was embarrassed by the whole affair. That I was exhausted. That stress and nerves had conspired against me. That I would rest and wake in the morning quite myself again.
He believed me.
That, dear reader, is the thing about reason. It is remarkably persuasive when spoken with confidence. And people are far more comfortable believing in a woman’s overactive imagination than in the possibility that something is wrong.
I held onto the memory of what I saw. I tucked it somewhere deep within my mind, knowing that it was not imagination or my own sanity slipping away.
It was real and he was lying to me.
And if it wasn’t—then someone was poisoning me.
Someone, perhaps Mrs. Ashby, perhaps Isolde… or perhaps Sylum, himself.
But I continued to smile until my cheeks ached. I thanked him for his patience. I kissed him goodnight.
And when he left, I sat very still in the quiet that followed, listening to the house breathe around me, counting my own heartbeats as if they were proof of something solid.
Because here is the truth I did not say aloud…
Dreams do not leave the taste of sour tea on your tongue. Dreams do not continue long after you’ve acknowledged them, and one must, at some point, wake from a dream.
I never woke up.
—L
Chapter 16
Poe, the ever faithful companion, was waiting for me on the windowsill, his black feathers fluffed against the chill of morning air.
