Chapter Twenty-Four
ELODIE
Stale, breathless rot slammed into my face as we crossed the mausoleum’s threshold. The air tasted old, like it had been locked between the stones for years.
I wiped my palm on my trousers, smearing the blood into the fabric, as Preston struck a match beside me.
The flame hissed alive, casting a flickering veil over the moss-covered walls.
He swept the light in a slow arc, making the shadows dance across the stone.
Neither of us spoke of the cursed vines he had just slaughtered outside, and I was glad for that.
Part of me wanted to believe it was a trick of my mind.
That I fell into the thorns myself and the blood loss made me see things that weren’t really there.
Magic like that wasn’t supposed to exist. Not outside of books…
The thick, stagnant air coiled in my lungs, heavy as smoke.
There was only one chamber inside the mausoleum—just as I’d seen in my nightmare—and it was lined with crypts like teeth, enhanced with frescoes of skulls and skeletons, reminding me of my own fragile mortality.
My boots echoed softly on the stone as I edged closer, the reverberations pressing back at me from the tomb-dark corners.
The first name carved into the wall was Euriel Thornbury.
Lived 1723–1747
Beside it, rested Muriel Thornbury.
Lived 1723–1834
They must have been twins like Myra and Cecily.
“Ne in morte quidem requiem invenis,” Preston murmured, the Latin curling from his lips like smoke.
I couldn’t understand what he said, but I had no doubt it was something cryptic like usual. I kept moving, reading the names of my ancestors.
“Did a ghost finally steal your tongue, poison?” he breathed into my ear, and a shiver crawled along my spine in response.
I drew away, and turned to face him. His green eyes glowed like emeralds in the warm candle light.
“I don’t think a tongue-hungry ghost would even blink at me, with you being here,” I said coolly, which only made him grin, slow and satisfied, as if I’d gifted him something.
“So, you think a ghost would rather have my tongue?” Preston drawled, pressing a hand to his chest like I’d paid him a compliment. “I’m touched.”
I glared at the mossed ceiling in annoyance, then turned back to the crypts. The flame of his match guttered in the still air, painting the stone in brief, flickering bruises of orange.
“No,” I replied. “I think you talk too much.”
I was halfway through reading the bottom row when I noticed one of the crypts was missing a corner. Its edge splintered, a rough gap left gaping like a wound. Had someone broken it on purpose, or had time simply gnawed it away?
I crouched, peering into the dark space. Preston moved behind me, and I braced myself for a flippant remark, but instead, he simply knelt down and passed me a freshly lit match.
“Thanks,” I said, the wood warm between my fingers and I held it close to the hole. Still, I couldn’t see a thing.
“Let me help.” He curled his fingers around the fractured edge of the lid, Orion Thornbury’s name carved into it, and heaved the stone aside. “Isn’t he the lad that built the sculpture in the maze?” he asked, setting the stone aside to reveal the dark space behind.
I nodded, masking the fact that I actually hadn’t noticed that at all, and held the match into the void. To my relief, it was neither bones, nor rot, sitting beneath the shadows. I reached into the hollow, and pulled out a damp, heavy book, letting it thump onto the stone floor.
Preston knelt and swept away the mud from the cover, revealing the title beneath the grime.
Tome of Fates
My chest suddenly filled with air. It felt like I was breathing for the first time since I arrived here. Finally. The book of the one they called the Great Monster.
The paper was damp and heavy beneath my fingertips as I opened it to the first page. Ink curled across the parchment in an elegant sprawl.
May 2, 1665.
Agnes arrived.
“Excuse me, Miss,” someone cleared their throat, and I turned my head to find Alistair standing at the rusted gate, looking as calm as always. “Dinner will be served shortly.”
I frowned. How was that possible? I glared down at my watch only to realize the hands were frozen, unmoving. The river water must have ruined it. I pressed my lips into a thin line, but nodded.
“We should head back,” I said to Preston, who ignored the butler’s words, his eyes still fixed on the pages.
Before he could have answered, I closed the book and drew it to my chest. It smelled damp, ancient, with its mildewed pages. Curiosity pulsed beneath my skin louder than usual.
“Aren’t you curious about what we just found?” he asked, his voice almost a whisper, coaxing me into the darkness of the unknown.
I snapped my gaze toward Alistair, only to realize he was already headed back to the manor. The forest swayed behind the archway, dark and luring.
“Lilian’s already back.” I looked down at my watch again as if somehow I could will the hands to work. “And there’s no we,” I added, standing.
“All right.” Preston rose fluidly to his feet, brushing off his trousers with an almost feline grace. “But don’t forget who saved your life…” He leaned into my face as he walked past me to the gate, and heat curled low in my stomach. “Twice.”
“How was everyone’s day?” Lilian asked, lowering herself into her seat at the head of the table.
After Preston and I returned from the mausoleum, I’d stashed the Tome of Fates beneath my mattress and headed downstairs to join dinner.
Now I sat at the long dining table, the silverware catching candlelight like small daggers. I kept my gaze on the steam curling from the bowl of soup in front of me, hoping the twins would answer Lilian’s question as they usually did. But for some reason, they were abnormally silent.
I glanced up to see Myra gently rubbing her sister’s back while Cecily cradled her tea, inhaling its warmth. Did she catch another cold? Or had something else curled its fingers around her?
“Elodie.” Lilian’s voice sliced through the air, and I straightened my back, snapping my attention away from the twins. “Have you decided on your birthday party yet?”
Dread pooled low in my stomach. The party. I would be lying if I said I’d thought about it at all. The idea of a crowded room and loud music seemed less like celebration and more like torture.
“We already started looking for dresses,” Cecily chimed in, glancing up from the steam of her tea, her gaze nearly lost beneath her white lashes.
“She hasn’t agreed yet,” Myra said softly, the edge of hesitation in her voice enough to earn a swift, sharp look from her sister.
“But it would be so magical,” Cecily whispered, almost pleading now. “Everyone would be there.”
“The Marzouqs have promised it will be exactly to your taste.” Lilian smoothed the napkin in her lap.
But that was the thing. I didn’t even like the idea of it.
Her attention remained fixed on me, her gaze steady, like a hawk watching its prey. “I’m sure your mother’s old friends would be delighted to meet you.”
I blinked, breaking eye contact. She found the only thing I was truly interested in.
My chest tightened, the possibilities pressing in.
After a momentary silence, I cleared my throat, my fingers gripping the spoon.
“I think a party would be great,” I forced out, and Cecily jumped in her seat, clapping her hands at the same time Lilian did.
“Splendid,” she said. “Then we shall say yes to Declan Marzouq’s invitation as well.”
The spoon in my hand froze mid-air, a single drop of soup landing among the silver thorns etched into the porcelain bowl.
“Invitation?” I asked warily, as Lilian’s smile bloomed like a bruise.