Page 42 of The Vespertine Treaty

Philomena blinked. “Shade of blue?”

She tilted her head, curiosity blooming warm and genuine. “What do you mean by that? You can see… auras?”

The question sliced something open in my chest.

Because the last time someone asked?—

The corridor suddenly felt too small, too sharp. The sapphire around her wavered.

“I do,” I whispered. “I see emotions. In colour. I always have.”

Philomena’s breath caught. “Ophelia… that’s extraordinary. What does?—”

But I didn’t hear the rest.

Because saying it aloud… Feeling the wordcolour…

Sapphire blurred into memory.

My vision tunnelled. My pulse stumbled. Stone dissolved into grass. Cool dusk air twisted into the scent of crushed violets.

And the past rushed up to swallow me whole.

The garden had not yet fully surrendered to ruin. The blight lingered only as a hesitant bruise along the Shadowblooms, a whisper of the rot that would one day devour everything. I was ten, small, sun-kissed, and foolish enough to believe the world could still be gentle. I sat beneath the weeping willow’s curtain of green, my laughter drifting like pollen as Poppy, an untidy puff of gold fur and oversized ears, bounced after the tail of my discarded ribbon.

Then the world cleaved in two.

A bellow, raw, jagged, violent, tore through the afternoon. The double doors burst open as my father lurched into the garden, his silhouette staining the light around him. Lord Ashworth’s aura blazed a monstrous violet-black at the edges, but the centre pulsed a vicious, blood-orange so bright it quivered.

My mother followed in his grasp, her feet scuffing helplessly against the stone threshold. He held her by the throat, fingers digging in with a cruelty that felt older than mankind. Her aura, normally a soft silver-grey that rarely calmed the storm inside me, flickered like a wounded moth. She clawed at his wrist, small and desperate.

He shook her. Hard. Then came the slap, a crack so sharp it tore the moment open.

He shoved her inside the pavilion across the lawn; the doors slamming behind them with a finality that felt like a coffin lid. The garden fell into a horrified hush. Even the willow seemed to hold its breath.

Cold terror wrapped around me like a wet shroud. I stuffed Poppy beneath my velvet vest, feeling her frantic heartbeat against my ribs, then crawled toward the tall parlour window. Each step felt like a betrayal of the safety I had known only seconds before.

I edged toward the parlour window on shaking limbs, breath snagging in my throat. The glass was cold against my cheek, a thin, trembling barrier between me and the nightmare inside.

And then I saw them.

My mother was sprawled across the chaise, her ruffled skirt bunched around her hips in a violent, unnatural heap. The delicate lace that once trimmed it hung in torn, pathetic threads. Her bodice, stitched that morning by her own maid, was ripped open, one sleeve hanging by a single stubborn seam. Her hair, usually pinned with pearls, tumbled wildly around her face, strands glued to her cheeks by kohl-stained tears.

She wasn’t crying so much asbreaking. Silent sobs convulsed her shoulders, her silver-grey aura stuttering like a candle caught in a storm.

My father loomed over her, pinning her down with the horrible inevitability of an avalanche. His trousers were shoved low on his hips, his shirt half-open, his entire body radiating that monstrous orange-red light. It pulsed—slow, predatory,consuming—each flare slashing through her dimming silver like claws.

She struggled. Gods, shestruggled. Her hands pressed against his chest, nails raking, pushing, pleading. But his rage swallowed every motion, every shard of her resistance. When she tried to twist away, he forced her back down with another slap, then one hand gripping her wrists above her head, the other?—

I tore my gaze away, but the colours wouldn’t let me go.

The orange-red of him surged, flooding the room in a violent tide, drowning her fragile silver beneath its roar. It was the first time I realized that some colors didn't just represent feelings; they represented the end of someone else's world. It felt like watching a star be smothered, crushed until it collapsed in on itself. Her aura flickered one final time, bright, desperate, terrified, before dimming to a thin, trembling thread.

Something inside me snapped.

The world tilted. My knees buckled. My breath turned to shards. I stumbled backward from the window, from the horror, from the sickening certainty that something sacred had been shattered right before my eyes.

I ran. I didn’t feel the stones under my shoes or the branches slicing my arms. I didn’t feel anything but the echo of that brutal, devouring orange-red. It chased me—burning, choking, until I collided with the safest person I had ever known.