Chapter Thirty
ELODIE
The four of us sat down at the dinner table, and I automatically glanced at Preston’s empty seat.
He’d been absent for the last couple of days.
The last time I talked to him had been in my room after we got back from the tunnels a week ago.
Since then, I’d seen him only once in an empty hallway, stretched out on the top of a cabinet with a book, like a cat.
There were also traces of his presence, like the abandoned chess play in the library, or the used matches left on random furniture.
But it was as if he was avoiding me… which I didn’t mind, of course.
It was refreshing to not hear his smug comments for once, but still I couldn’t help but wonder why he was suddenly distant.
“…dance.”
The word struck my ears and my eyes darted towards the twins and Lilian.
“Elodie will have the first dance,” Lilian answered to something the twins must have asked, and my eyes widened. “She will have the chance to choose her partner, but,” she raised her voice, making sure I heard her, “it would be smart to choose the son of the man that’s responsible for the event.”
Declan Marzouq, is who she meant.
“I won’t dance,” I stated, devouring the last bites of my food.
It wasn’t particularly because of Declan. Dancing in front of hundreds of people sounded like a nightmare. It was more than enough to just be there.
“Oh, don’t be a jest, pet.” Lilian’s smile sharpened. “Of course you will.”
My grip tightened around my fork, just as the side door opened—the one the staff used—and Alistair stepped out of it. He stopped in one of the shadowy corners of the room, holding a silver trail with four teacups and a pot.
“Preston will help you learn the steps,” Lilian went on, and I took a deep breath, ready to argue, but it was as if something had fetched my voice away. I was unable to form the words. I felt the flush creep its way up my cheeks and I pushed my chair back.
“Thank you for dinner,” I forced the shallow words out, before I darted out of the room.
I stood in front of the manor, looking up at its sharp, jutting roof as the rain’s cold tears washed over my face.
At first, I didn’t know what I was looking at, then, from behind the storm, I saw a boy standing at the edge of the roof.
His blonde hair was messy from the cutting wind that danced around us, lifting flowers out of their coffins.
But the wind carried something else with it—laughter.
I focused on the eerie sound, unsure whether it belonged to the storm or the boy himself.
You will fall! I wanted to shout, to warn him, but no sound left my throat.
I opened my mouth to try again, but the air left my lungs and I began to cough.
I was dying, I realized, hunching over as something cold landed on my palm.
I lifted my hand away from my lips, watching as dirty water slipped between my fingers.
The sight dragged me back to the riverbed.
My lungs tightened, filling with water, with fear.
The laughing hit my ears again and I raised my eyes back to the roof. Back to the man. The storm swelled around us, thunder shaking the house.
“You’re going to fall, Davenport!” This time, the cry did leave my lips, oxygen tearing back into my chest like a cyclone.
Preston, still balancing on the edge, suddenly stopped and tilted his head as if only noticing me now. Lightning struck down nearby, momentarily painting him in a ghostly purple glow, revealing the unhinged grin stretched across his face.
“That’s where you’re wrong, poison.” He leaned forward, and I instinctively reached out my arms, believing—foolishly—that I might catch him if it came to that. “We will both fall.” His eyes locked onto mine, ghoulishly calm. “Tenebrae nos omnes consument.”
Then he plunged.
The storm swallowed my scream as I lunged forward, desperate to see the stupid boy who had jumped to his own death through the pouring rain.
We will both fall.
His words reverberated in my head, as the world twirled around me and—
Gasping for air, I jolted upright. I was covered in sweat, my pyjama’s glued to my skin.
“Dreaming of me?” A low, lazy voice melted through the darkness, and I drew back against the headboard of the bed.
My fingers slid beneath the pillow, curling around cold steel as I drew the knife forward.
“Threatening to kill me? Again?” Preston’s silhouette leaned into the moonlight, a smirk playing on his lips, uncomfortably similar to the one I just saw in my dream. Cold pressed against my skin like ice, the image of him falling clinging to my mind like a leach to blood.
“If I didn’t know better, I would say it’s becoming something of a love language of yours.”
I lowered the blade with a sigh, brushing the damp hair from my forehead. “You,” I said, though the word didn’t hit the edge I wanted. It was too relieved for my liking, and I could only hope he didn’t notice.
“Me,” he said, unbothered, lifting the book in his hand. My book. The Greatest Works of Edgar Allan Poe.
“And darkness and decay and the Red Death held illimitable dominion over all,” he quoted, his voice like velvet stitched with menace.
Heat climbed up my neck, and I snatched the book from him. “What’re you doing here?” In the middle of the night.
“My room’s right above yours. And you screamed loud enough to wake the dead. I thought maybe you were being murdered.” His gaze landed on my knife in the light. “Or worse—you lost it and were murdering someone yourself.”
I rolled my eyes at the weak try of a joke. “Well, I’m clearly alive. You can go now.”
I reached for the teacup on my nightstand, only to knock it over. The dark liquid flowed right onto Hudson’s empty note. Panic seized my chest. I jumped to my feet and lit a candle, holding the paper above it, letting the warm flame hopefully do its job.
“Well, I’m glad I drank from it beforehand.”
My hands froze mid motion. “You drank from my tea?”
He dabbed at the corner of his mouth with exaggerated elegance. “Trying to wake you up made me thirsty. Though I’ll be honest, it tasted like regret and sadness.”
“So you drank from it, only just now?” I glanced at the clock, my stomach twisting.
Preston caught the look and arched a brow. “Why are we suddenly analysing my hydration habits?”
“Because there was Nightshade in it,” I blurted.
He blinked, his expression blank as if he was incapable of processing my words. “As in the poisonous plant Nightshade?”
“No, as in the life elixir Nightshade,” I answered bluntly. “Of course the poisonous plant!” I turned the paper so the other side could dry as well.
“Are you telling me I’m dying?”
“I’m not that lucky.” My lips twisted. “It was a small dose, and you barely drank from it. You’ll be fine.”
“I’ll be fine? I drank poison—” He massaged the bridge of his nose. “And why exactly are you sipping on herbal murder?”
I hesitated, the words sticking in my throat. How do you explain something like this without sounding unhinged?
“It’s something my mum taught me.”
He blinked. “She taught you to poison yourself?”
The corner of my eye twitched. Of course he misunderstood.
“She taught me to protect myself from everything,” I said pointedly. “There’s a difference.”
If someone tried to poison me, they’d be pleasantly disappointed I’d already made peace with the taste of death.
I turned my attention back to the envelope. Lines were appearing now—faint, hidden beneath the tea stain, as if summoned by the candle’s warmth. So it truly was invisible ink.
“Which Nightshade was it?” Preston asked, shifting closer.
“Tuesdays are for Bittersweet Nightshade,” I muttered, narrowing my eyes at the message slowly blooming in front of me.
“Tuesdays are for—” Preston’s voice was hoarse. “What’s Wednesday? Hemlock with a side of heartbreak?”
“Belladonna.”
A beat of silence passed. “Of course.”
I pressed my lips into a thin line. The message was ruined. Most of the words melted away, leaving only fragments:
I swallowed my disappointment.
“Thursday?” Preston pressed.
I slammed the letter down. “Monkshood. Stop interrogating me.”
He leaned back in the chair like a cat who’d caught a scent. “So many deadly secrets, poison. One for each day of the week.”
Suddenly, he began coughing. I froze.
The sound was raw, like pounding on a closed door. I glanced at the teacup. Had I miscalculated the dosage? No, I’d been doing this since I was little. Panic surged at the edge of my vision—
Preston took a deep breath, bowing his head, his light waves falling forward, shadowing his face.
I swallowed. “Are you alright?” I asked, in the piercing silence.
His eyes rose to mine, half-hidden beneath his dark lashes.
“Brilliant,” he said, his voice hoarse from coughing.
He leaned back, blowing out a long breath, his head tipped to the side. I looked away, drowning the rising guilt. No one asked him to drink from my tea.
“You look like her a lot,” he rasped. My head turned toward him, curious, but I didn’t meet his eyes.
“Your mum.”
I flinched, glancing at the photo on my nightstand.
I’d hidden it from him before, but now it was back in its place.
My mum’s wide smile made my stomach flutter with warmth and clench at the same time.
I didn’t know what to say. So instead, I nodded then marched to the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face.
“How did you even get in here?” I muttered, the chill biting deep into my skin. I was pretty sure I’d locked the door.
“We all have our secrets, don’t we?” he replied, his voice teasing.
My cheeks heated. We did. I stared into the mirror. The girl’s hair was a mess, her pyjamas wrinkled. Her reflection flickered, and my breath caught in my throat. Her eyes—black, swallowing the whites. I blinked, and the green returned.
I walked back into my room to find Preston standing by the window, casually flipping my bracelet between his fingers.
Prat. Yet, I didn’t ask for it back.
“Have you ever been to a Marzouq party?” I asked instead, picking at a loose thread on my sleeve. I hated to admit how nervous I felt about the upcoming party.
Preston tilted his head. “Worried about the dance?”
I huffed. “I’m not worried. I just don’t have the taste for it.”
The wind knocked on the glass of the window, and moments later, the first raindrop tapped on the glass. I flinched at the memory of my still fresh nightmare.
We will both fall.
Preston’s eyes flickered, and I couldn’t help but see that version of him. The one from the roof, painted in purple, wearing a smile that made the blood freeze in my veins.
“Well,” he said, “rumour has it that you got the greatest teacher of all.”
I scoffed. “I can dance.” I just preferred not to.
He turned his back to the window and crossed the room to the entrance. “We’ll see, won’t we?” He beamed. “Tomorrow night. Eight sharp. The ballroom is on your floor, in the east wing. Don’t be late.”
His smile was all thorns as he walked out, leaving the door gaping behind him.