Page 107 of The Vespertine Treaty

“Mostly," I lied.

I didn't tell her about the dress. I didn't tell her about the way Malathor had looked at me, or the things Rosette had said about Cain. I didn't tell her that every time I closed my eyes, I felt hands on me—phantom touches that made my skin crawl.

"He's terrified, you know,"Aemelia said quietly after a while."Cain. When he came to me... he was shaking, Ophelia. He hides it behind all that broodiness and leather, but he was terrified."

I looked at the empty chair by the window. "He won't talk to me. He sits there every night, but he won't even look at me."

"Give him time,"she said."He's dealing with the fact that he's not as invincible as he thought. Males with god-complexes don't handle vulnerability well."

I fell asleep holding the stone, wishing that vulnerability didn't look so much like hatred.

Five days have passed since I got back.

Friedrik came in with a deck of cards and a mission.

"Whist," he announced, dropping the worn, slightly singed deck onto the duvet. "Or at least, a variation of it I learned from a drunk sailor who came to bargain with another brooding Alistair centuries ago. Are you up for it, Little Ophie? Or are you going to mope until the moss grows on you?"

I managed a weak smile. "I don't think I have much choice now, do I?"

"None at all."

He climbed onto the foot of the bed—a massive, comical sight, his stone claws careful not to snag the silk. Poppy immediately hopped onto his head, settling between his shoulder blades like a conqueror.

We played for hours.

It was exactly what I needed. Friedrik was loud, boisterous, and completely devoid of pity. He treated me like Ophelia from before, not the Broken Aenite.

"You're cheating," I accused him on the fourth hand, pointing a finger at him. "That card changed suits. I saw it shift!"

"I am a creature of stone and magic," Friedrik sniffed, shuffling the deck with surprising dexterity. "I do not cheat. I merely encourage the cards to reach their full potential."

I laughed. It was a rusty, foreign sound, but it felt good. "You are a menace, Friedrik."

He paused, looking at me with his glowing amber eyes. The humor faded, replaced by an ancient, weary kindness.

"We missed that sound," he said softly. "The house was... quiet without it. Too quiet. Even the shadows seemed depressed."

I looked down at the cards in my lap. "I didn't think I would ever laugh again."

"You will," Friedrik promised. "You are tougher than you look. And besides..." He nodded toward the door. "He needs to hear it too."

I glanced at the door. It was slightly ajar. I hadn't noticed it before.

"Is he there?" I whispered.

"Always," Friedrik murmured, dealing the next hand. "He prowls the hallway like a tiger with a toothache. He is listening to every breath you take, Ophelia. He thinks if he stops listening, you'll disappear again."

The thought made my chest ache. It wasn't romantic; it was tragic. We were two haunted houses standing side by side, wondering why the ghosts wouldn't leave.

The seventh day since Cain saved me.

The dream was always the same.

The smell of damp stone. The flickering torchlight. Malathor’s face, twisting from handsome to skeletal.

“Does he touch you?” the dream-Malathor hissed, his voice overlapping with Rosette’s. “Does he break you?”

In the dream, I was paralysed. My limbs were lead. I watched as his hand reached out—not for my throat, but lower. He grabbed the bodice of my gown. The sound of ripping fabric was deafening, louder than thunder.