Chapter 4
The dark pressed too close. Heat swelled until the air tasted of smoke—sweet at first, then bitter as burned sugar.
Margaret stood barefoot on scorched floorboards. Curtains hung limp, blackened where flames licked higher. The shadows twisted on the walls were not dolls nor nursery shapes but something tall moving in the flicker.
“Mama?” she called. No answer, only the hiss of wood splintering.
A man stood in the firelight, coat black as the smoke curling around his boots. His eyes caught the light like glass.
“Stay back—” Her voice scraped raw.
He stepped forward, sparks leaping at his cuffs. Long fingers reached for her, nails cracked and blackened. No words came, only a sound like wind howling down an empty chimney.
Her heel struck something soft, her rag doll, one glass eye staring as its braid burned away.
The man’s cold hand closed on her shoulder. She tried to scream, but smoke filled her lungs. His cracked grin moved soundlessly before a black whisper slid into her ear:
“Margaret—”
She lurched upright in the real dark. A gas lamp guttered in the corner, throwing yellow slices across the ceiling. Her shift clung to her chest, damp with sweat that felt like ashes still clinging to her skin.
A scream tore loose before she could swallow it. It was sharp and raw, knifing through the quiet until her throat closed.
Her breath came in broken gasps. She shoved her hair from her face with shaking fingers, her eyes wild, searching the corners for flames that weren’t there.
“No fire,” she whispered, voice rasping. “No fire. No…”
Just her, small and shaking. The taste of burning was still on her tongue.
She gripped the sheet. Remember where you are. Remember—
But the other nightmare rushed in. The door swung open. Faces in the doorway, shocked, delighted, hungry. Music from the ballroom was bleeding into the library.
Her torn dress bunched at her waist. His hands were steadying her.
She could still feel the heat of his coat under her fingers, her pulse thudding into his palms. And the looks on their faces…
“God,” she breathed, curling in on herself.
And Sebastian, wearing that devil’s half-smile like it could shield them both from ruin.
There was no fire now, but she might as well still be burning. The crackle was gossip this time, crawling under every door.
She pressed her hands to her face. Don’t cry. Not for this.
But the sting rose anyway. She was already the girl with whispers in her wake—unlucky, mad, strange. And now, they had better stories to tell.
A knock at the door jolted her upright. She bit the inside of her cheek, dragging her blanket higher, as if it might hide her shame.
Another soft rap, then Cecily’s voice, half-whisper, half-sigh. “Margaret? It’s only me. Are you awake?”
She didn’t answer right away. She couldn’t. Margaret just stared at the faint glow where the lamp flickered low, its thin hiss the only sound left in the quiet room.
At some point in the dark, she’d heard soft footsteps pause at her door, a swish of fabric, then silence when she didn’t answer. The steps drifted away again, leaving her alone with the creak of the walls and her own too-loud heartbeat.
She didn’t sleep again. She never did. Some nights she drifted, half-dreaming, half-waiting for the crackle and the hand that had haunted her since the night her family’s house burned. But never really resting. Rest was for people who didn’t wake burning.
The knock came again at first light. Cecily slipped in without waiting for permission, a pale shape in her morning robe, hair half-pinned, worry written clear across her face.
She hovered by the door at first, as if bracing for more ghosts.
“You screamed,” she said softly, voice breaking the hush. “I heard you. I almost came in then, but you went quiet again, and Mother was still awake, and…”
She trailed off, twisting the corner of her sleeve.
“Are you… all right?”
Margaret pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders, half-turning her face to the window where dawn did its best to look merciful.
“I’m fine.” The lie tasted stale on her tongue, but it came out smooth with practice.
“Margaret…” Cecily stepped closer, perched carefully on the edge of the bed like she was afraid she’d spook her cousin back into the dark.
She hesitated, glancing at the tiny door that led back to the rest of the house.
“Was it last night? Mother’s calling for you, you know.
She wants… well, you know what she wants. ”
Margaret closed her eyes, pressing her knees tighter.
“I said I’m fine. And I know what she wants.”
She opened them again just enough to catch Cecily’s frown, warm and helpless.
“Go on. I’ll come down in a moment.”
“Margaret…” Cecily leaned in and dropped her voice to a whisper. “I’m sorry. About last night. About everything. If I could—”
But Margaret cut her off with the ghost of a smile too sharp to be real comfort.
“Nothing to be sorry for, Cecily. I’ve lived through worse nights. I’ll live through this one, too.”
She reached out and squeezed Cecily’s hand once. “Go on. Before Aunt Agnes decides to storm up here herself and drag me out by my hair.”
Cecily’s mouth twisted like she wanted to fight it, but she only nodded, brushing her thumb across Margaret’s knuckles.
“Five minutes, then I’m back up here with a shoehorn and a tray to pry you out of this bed.”
“Five minutes,” Margaret echoed.
Cecily didn’t move. She glanced at the door, then back at Margaret, then pulled her robe tighter like it might hold her questions in.
“It’s not fair, you know.”
Margaret’s brows drew together, but she didn’t answer.
“It’s not fair that it’s always you,” Cecily pressed on, her voice low, fierce in the soft gray dawn. “You didn’t do anything wrong last night. You didn’t ask for… for any of it. And now, they’ll all…”
She broke off, her throat working.
Margaret gave a small huff that might have been a laugh if it wasn’t so thin. “Life’s never been fair. I stopped expecting it to be.”
“Still. I wish…” Cecily’s eyes glistened. She sniffed once, annoyed at herself, and wiped at her cheek. “I wish I could do something. Take it back. Scream at them all. Barge into the ballroom and—”
“Don’t waste your breath.” Margaret’s voice turned gentle, almost teasing. “You’d only make it worse. You’d knock over a vase, slip on the marble, and give them something new to whisper about.”
“Better me than you,” Cecily shot back, a tiny spark under the tremble in her voice.
“And scandalize Aunt Agnes into an early grave?” Margaret teased. “I’d have to wear mourning for the rest of my life. Too much effort.”
Cecily let out a watery snort and leaned in to press her forehead to Margaret’s for a heartbeat. It was quick, fierce, sister-like.
“Five minutes,” she said again, voice firmer now. “Then I’m back up with a shoehorn. And tea so strong you’ll hate me for it.”
“Perfect,” Margaret murmured, eyes fluttering closed for half a second as Cecily pulled away.
“Bring the shoehorn first.”
Downstairs, the drawing room smelled of cold tea and roses gone to wilt.
Aunt Agnes perched stiff as a hatpin on the edge of her chair, a crumpled letter trembling in her fingers.
Beatrice stood by the hearth, arms folded tight, jaw tight as if she’d rather swallow her tongue than say what needed to be said.
Cecily hovered by the window, her reflection ghosting over the glass as dawn pressed in.
Margaret paused in the doorway, half-hoping no one would notice her. But of course, they did.
“Finally,” Aunt Agnes snapped, voice sharper than the winter light. “I sent for you an age ago.”
“I was dressing,” Margaret murmured. Her palms fussed at her skirt’s wrinkled seam, pointless.
“Dressing,” Beatrice echoed, voice a brittle mirror of their aunt’s. “As if any gown will help now.”
Margaret’s eyes flicked to her cousin. “I know what they saw, Bea.”
“Do you?” Beatrice’s laugh cracked, small and sharp. “Do you truly? They saw you in his arms. In a locked room. The entire ballroom knows by now. They’ll talk about it for weeks!”
“I know,” Margaret murmured.
“Then you know what they’ll say,” Aunt Agnes cut in, voice sharp enough to slice the hush. She slapped the letter against her knee. “A duke’s name dragged through scandal, and yours too, again. We’ll be laughed out of every parlor from here to Somerset.”
Margaret stared at the floor, willing the carpet to swallow her feet. “It wasn’t… I didn’t ask for—”
Beatrice flinched, fingers tightening around her sleeve. Her next words came out low, brittle. “You never do. And yet, it always finds you. The gossip, the looks. You think you’re the only one it touches? It sticks to me, too. To Cecily. To all of us.”
“But it isn’t my fault.” Margaret’s voice cracked, tears threatening to fall.
“You didn’t stop it either,” Beatrice snapped. “You couldn’t just stay quiet, keep your head down, not find trouble for once—”
“Beatrice!” Cecily warned, voice low.
“Go on.” Margaret cut in, lifting her chin. Her eyes found Beatrice’s, searching for softness that wasn’t there. “You think I bring bad luck? Say it properly this time.”
Beatrice’s mouth pressed tight. Her hands twisted in her shawl. “You do. Everything breaks around you, even people. Even our chances.”
Margaret’s mouth worked, but nothing useful came. Cecily’s breath hitched at the window. “Beatrice—”
“No, let her say it,” Margaret cut in, her voice too soft to match the thud in her chest. “If she’s going to hate me for it, she might as well say it aloud.”
Beatrice’s eyes flicked up, the harshness cracking for half a heartbeat. “I don’t hate you.”
“Could have fooled me,” Cecily muttered, arms crossed tight.
Beatrice ignored her. She stepped closer to Margaret, words trembling at the edges. “I don’t hate you. I hate this… this… curse. This cloud that clings to you like smoke. You think I don’t pray it might blow away? That you’ll find someone to chase it off you?”