“Lucy…”
I followed his gaze.
There, beside me in the grass, lay a knife, its silver blade slick and glinting, a thin line of crimson dripping from its edge. Next to it, half-buried in the dew-soaked earth, was a single red rose.
The petals were bruised. The stem torn.
Sylum reached toward them, then stopped, as iftouching them would burn him.
“Lucy,” he repeated, his voice low, uncertain. “What happened here?”
But I couldn’t answer.
Because I no longer knew for certain.
Poe settled on the low branch of a hedge nearby, his feathers ruffled and damp. He tilted his head, black eyes gleaming.
“Two shadows. One bone,” he crooned softly.
Sylum looked up at the bird, his eyes narrowing slightly. His jaw tightened as he gathered me into his arms. “Enough, Poe,” he scolded firmly, though his voice shook.
My head fell against his shoulder, the scent of him filling my senses as he carried me swiftly toward the manor. The world around us blurred, the fog curling thickly at our heels like it meant to drag us back.
Gasps rippled through the hall as we entered. Servants froze mid-step, eyes wide, whispers fluttering like startled birds. At the top of the stairs, Isolde stood waiting, her face pale with shock, though her expression hardened as her gaze fell on me.
“Good heavens,” she hissed, one gloved hand clutching her chest. “What has she done now?”
Sylum ignored her, his voice sharp as a blade. “Mrs. Ashby! Fetch the doctor at once. And send for Nelly!”
“Sylum, please—” My protest came out in a breathless, panicked croak. “A doctor isn’t necessary.”
But he did not so much as glance at me. He only held me closer as he strode up the staircase, his boots striking the floor in frantic rhythm.
Within moments, I was back in my room. The door closed and the quiet pressed in. Sylum lowered me carefully onto the bed, his movements gentle but purposeful.
“Stay still,” he said firmly, his voice low.
He began to unfasten my gown, the ruined fabric stiff with blood and torn lace. My heart hammered, my mind spinning as his hands moved gently over me.
“What are you doing?” I asked, my voice shaking.
“Assessing your injuries,” he replied simply, his eyes never leaving mine.
“Sylum, I told you I’m fine.”
“Lucy,” he interrupted softly, “you were found in the garden, unconscious, with a knife.”
His words settled between us. My throat closed.
“I—” I faltered, searching for an excuse, for anything. I refused to tell him the truth...
“I used it to cut the rose.”
A long silence. He stilled, watching my face with that piercing scrutiny of his. “There are garden shears by the roses,” he countered finally.
I swallowed hard. “Yes… I suppose that would have been the wiser choice.”
He said nothing, only turned away. I watched him cross to the washstand, pour water into the basin, and work the soap into a clean cloth with slow, deliberate motions.When he returned, he knelt beside the bed, gently cleaning away the blood on my hands.
