And if it was his…
Then at least I would die knowing his secrets, knowing the shape of his betrayal, knowing the face of the man I loved enough to let kill me.
I sat up at once.
Without the poison singing in my blood, my mind was cold and sharp. I slipped from his bed and into the shadows, gathering my night wrapper around me. Poe hopped onto the footboard, feathers fluffed in silent agitation.
“Hush,” I soothed, holding out my hand so he could climb to my shoulder.
“Let my heart be still a moment,” he croaked softly, “this mystery explore.”
“Shh,” I quieted, pressing a finger to my lips. “Yes, we are going to explore this mystery, but you must be quiet.”
The lamps burned low along the corridor, casting warped amber halos along the walls. Sylum’s footsteps echoed distantly ahead of me, steady and purposeful.
I followed him.
My pulse quickened in that terrible, beautiful way one feels when following a lover into the dark… uncertain whether he will lead you to salvation or to the edge of your grave.
I slipped down the servants’ stairwell, breath held still in my chest as the echo of his boots guided me deeper into the shadows.
I was a woman reclaiming her life by stalking her husband through his own mansion. Such a thing should have felt empowering. Instead, it felt like slipping further into a delicious, poisonous madness.
I found him in the morning room, the door cracked just enough for a sliver of lamplight to bleed into the corridor. Voices drifted through the gap.
Sylum’s first—low, tight, and exhausted.
“…I don’t know what happened, aunt. I don’t know.”
Then Isolde.
Her reply was sharp as a needle dipped in honey. “You must stop indulging her. You saw her today… covered in blood, raving in front of the constable. She murdered that poor girl, Sylum.”
My mouth went dry.
Inside, something clattered sharply. Sylum’s hand striking the table, perhaps.
“You don’t know that,” he hissed. “Lydia could have fallen… someone else could have…”
“Oh, do be serious,” Isolde snapped. “The blood was on her and she all but screamed of her guilt earlier. She’s been unstable for weeks, you said so yourself. God above, Sylum, how blind can you be? Even after what happened with your—”
“Do not say it,” Sylum interrupted before she could finish, voice low and deadly.
A hard, terrible silence passed between them.
“I will speak of what must be spoken of,” she said coolly. “You think your wife is merely troubled? This goes beyond nerves or hysteria. She is unraveling, and if you do not act, she will drag the Blackthorn name into ruin.”
My pulse thundered in my ears.
Sylum whispered fiercely, “Lower your voice. Anyone could hear you.”
Like a guilty child caught spying, I flinched, but neither of them opened the door.
Isolde pressed on. “She must be committed, Sylum. Or confined, at the very least. She is dangerous. The constable suspects something already.”
“She is my wife,” Sylum growled. “I will not abandon her.”
“You may not have a choice.”
