I offered nothing in return though I knew what she was thinking. That I had something to do with Lydia’s death.
She dressed me and did my hair, lips pressed into a thin line, eyes watching me warily, before leaving me, promising a tray brought up.
It was.
But I refused to touch any of it.
By the time I found the strength to leave my room, the corridors outside were alive with the hushed panic of servants. I slipped out before anyone could stop me, following the current of grief deeper into the house.
The east wing reeked of death.
A sharp, metallic tang clung to the air—fresh blood seeping into cold stone—and the moment it hit my tongue, something inside me recoiled.
Halfway up the staircase, I stopped.
Below, Sylum stood rigid, his coat streaked with dust and something darker alongthe cuff. Mrs. Ashby hovered nearby, her hands clasped in front of her, her eyes rimmed red.
The servants had clustered at a respectful distance, heads bowed as if afraid the dead might look back.
I saw the shape then, a pale form beneath a sheet at the foot of the stairs. A single hand protruded, limp and bloodless against the marble.
I gasped, my vision tunneling.
Sylum’s head snapped up at the sound.
“Lucy,” he breathed, taking the stairs two at a time to reach me. “I told you to stay in your room.”
I shook my head slowly, my voice shaking. “I had to see.”
His hands closed around my arms to steady me and though his touch was gentle now, I remembered how he’d held my face the night before. Firm. Controlling. Cold.
“Lucy,” he said again, softer, pleading. “Don’t.”
“I was here,” I cried.
He shook his head. “No.”
“I was,” I insisted, though my throat felt too tight to breathe. “Last night. I was here and I saw you with her…”
He shook his head, his eyes darting briefly toward the covered body.
“It was a dream.” His tone sharpened, low and quick, meant for my ears alone. “Only a dream.”
The look on his face told me he didn’t believe that. Not entirely.
“It wasn’t!” I snapped, jerking my arm from his grasp.
Sylum froze, as if afraid a single wrong movement might shatter what fragile sanity he thought remained in me.
“She fell,” he said finally, each word precise, sculpted from resolve and anger. “The railing gave way. It was an accident.”
But there was something in his tone, some shadow between the words, that made my blood run cold.
I looked toward the splintered railing above. I could still hear the crack of wood as my elbow struck.
My elbow strikingher.
“I killed her,” I whispered, horror widening inside me like a wound. “I killed her because of you. She held my wrists while you poisoned me. I hit her! I knocked her over the railing—”
