Chapter Six – Elaria
Water laps against porcelain. I blink up at the ceiling—ornate, plaster-veined, unfamiliar. My body aches along the spine, skin wrinkled and chilled where the water's cooled. One arm lies draped over the rim of the bathtub, the other half-submerged, fingers slack beneath the surface. The tap is off, but the drain hasn’t held. The bathwater has lowered to my ribs.
I must have fallen asleep.
My limbs feel stapled, dense with exhaustion. The room is quiet. No one’s come in.
I sit up, water sloshing gently around me, and reach for a towel. It’s been placed neatly on a wooden stool near the head of the bath, folded with precision. The kind of care that feels impersonal.
The floor is cold under my feet as I step out. My knees wobble slightly. I brace one hand on the edge of the vanity, knuckles whitening against the polished marble until the dizziness passes.
The bedroom’s only a few steps away. I don’t bother drying completely. The towel stays around my shoulders, half-forgotten, clinging to one arm as I push the door open with my other hand.
The room is dim—just a sliver of dying daylight leaking in through the heavy curtains. On a low table near the window, a tray waits. The soup’s surface has a film now, thin and stiff. The bread is rigid at the corners. Beside the tray, a stack of folded clothes sits atop a velvet armchair.
A blouse. Slacks. Another soft black scarf.
I drop the towel without ceremony and pull the clothes on, fabric sticking slightly to still-damp skin. The blouse is too loose. The pants cinch high but hang oddly. Someone guessed my size and missed by a margin.
I lower myself to the floor beside the tray and start to eat. The soup tastes metallic, the chill of it settling behind my teeth. I don’t finish the bread. I chew without thinking, eyes unfocused, jaw moving on autopilot.
Halfway through, I curl into the side of the bed and lie down on the carpet. I don’t remember closing my eyes.
When I wake again, it’s pitch dark.
No light filters through the curtains. I sit up—too fast—and knock the tray with my knee. The bowl rattles, spilling what’s left of the soup onto the rug
I reach out, fingers grazing the nearest wall, and feel along the molding until I find the switch.
Click.
The room lights in dull yellow, flickering slightly. My pupils contract. I squint until the shapes settle. I cross the room, one hand brushing the edge of the dresser for balance. The handle feels cold beneath my fingers.
Outside, the hallway yawns open. Shadows climb the walls in tall streaks. Everything smells of polish and quiet.
I step barefoot onto the marble and move without thinking. I pass a maid dusting a picture frame. She bows slightly. Says nothing. Her eyes don’t linger.
Another one walks briskly from a side room, carrying a silver tray. They look at me like they know who I am.
I pause at the edge of a long hallway, fingers brushing the wall.
I see him again in my mind, the second man—tall, still, his eyes watching me without expression.
The second man—Lorenzo. He told me his name. His voice plays back, flat but firm.
“He doesn’t speak.”
“What?”
“Cassian. The master of this mansion, the one you just met.”
“Oh.”
“He wasn’t born like that. It’s a choice. If you hear him speak one day, don’t be startled—though there’s no hope for that, so don’t expect it. But no worries, let me know if you need anything. If I’m not near, any maid can relay the message.”
The next hallway curves inward, tighter. Doors line the walls—closed, unmarked. Except one.
A large door. Dark wood. Brass fixtures aged to a coppery sheen. A small plaque etched in simple letters:
Private Study
I stop in front of it.
I glance over my shoulder. No eyes. No sound.
My fingers close around the brass handle. Cold. Heavy. I push.
The door opens without resistance.
I expect to see him—standing behind his desk, maybe, arms folded, watching me. But the room is empty.
A fire burns low in the hearth—barely embers now. Books line the shelves from floor to ceiling, all bound in deep greens, browns, and worn black. Nothing glossy. Nothing new.
I step inside. Close the door behind me with care.
The desk draws my attention first. Solid oak. Immaculately arranged—no clutter, just a few items placed with the kind of precision that feels more ritual than habit. A heavy fountain pen. A square of parchment. A rosary coil of matte black beads resting at the edge, like it’s been set there for remembrance, not use.
I walk around it. He must sit here. Often.
I try to imagine him—sleeves rolled, shoulders bowed forward slightly, head dipped in thought.
I wonder if this room allows him softness. Or solitude.
My fingers skim the edge of the desk. The grain is smooth. And then I notice something strange.
A seam. It runs alongside the paneling near the bookshelf, subtle but contrived. I crouch down, fingers tracing the outline. There’s a small crest just beneath the carved rivet in the wood. At first glance, it looks decorative—part of the design. But I know better.
My father trained me to notice what others ignored. Safe compartments. False floors. Symbols hiding in plain sight. In this world, architecture is never just aesthetic.
I press the ridge. A click answers.
The panel shifts with a groan of concealed stone. Cold air rushes out, carrying the scent of dust and something older—wax and limestone and iron.
A staircase winds downward. Spiral. Narrow.
Logic tells me to turn back.
I ignore and walk in. Each step deepens the silence.
The walls change from polished wood to unpolished limestone, still rough in places. My fingertips trail against them for balance. I count fifteen steps. Then twenty. Then thirty. The staircase tightens, then opens.
I step into a room shaped like a chapel.
The ceiling curves high above me, painted in faded blue. Saints line the arches along the walls, none of them smiling. Their eyes look past me. Each clutches something—scroll, sword, dagger. Flame. Each one carved with a reverence that feels almost threatening.
The sconces are iron, twisted like thorns. Candles burn low, their wax pooled thick beneath them. No windows. No sound but my own breathing.
At the center of the room stands an altar.
Marble. Stark white veined with red, square and unadorned—except for a symbol carved directly into its surface: two rings, interlocked, with a blade slashing through the center. A black linen cloth drapes across it, edges worn thin. Beneath the altar, a single rosary lies coiled. Bone-white beads.
But it’s the far wall that pulls me.
Paintings.
Five.
Lit by individual candles beneath each one. Gold-leaf frames. No glass.
All of her. Giovanna.
My mouth goes dry.
In one, she stands in profile, her expression serene, hair swept up with a pearl comb I vaguely remember from our mother’s vanity. In another, she’s seated, her hands folded in her lap, her gaze locked directly on the artist—calm, but not passive. The third shows her laughing, her head slightly turned, a shadow of joy caught in movement. I can barely breathe.
And then—The last one.
She faces forward. One hand rests on her stomach. The other hangs by her side. The background bleeds into deep crimson. Her eyes hold something I can’t name. There’s no smile in this one.
I take a step back. My shoulder brushes the cold limestone wall.
My legs feel locked, rooted to the stone floor as my eyes stay fixed on the last portrait.
Her hand on her stomach.
The red background.
The absence of a smile.
Everything about it is wrong. Like the painter saw something in her no one else did and trapped it there—forever staring, forever haunted.
Why?
Why are these here?
Why her? Why am I here?
I don’t know how long I stand there, staring at the portraits.
I walk toward the altar. There’s a strange weight in my limbs now, like the moment before a fever breaks. I place my hand on the surface for balance. The marble is cool, grounding.
I stare down at it. The cloth draped across the altar is rough black linen, faded at the corners. It’s been touched—often.
The shape of something underneath pulls my attention. I hesitate, then peel the fabric back.
My fingers pause over a faint, discolored section of the stone.
A mark. Darker than the rest of the altar. It spreads in a faint, uneven shape over the carved symbol beneath it—two rings, bound together, crossed by a blade.
I stare.
It looks like—
Blood.
I don’t mean to touch it. I just… do.
My fingertips brush the stain, drawn to it by something I can’t explain. The moment skin meets stone—
The world erupts inside me.
A jolt explodes through my hand—sharp, electric, unnatural. My arm seizes, fingers curling violently against the marble as my body convulses backward.
I cry out. Another shock slams into my ribs like being impaled from the inside. My knees buckle. I hit the ground without catching myself, my palms slapping the stone.
A scream tears from my throat—I can’t breathe.
Something unseen drives into my back, just under my shoulder blade. My body twists. My nails scrape against the floor. I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t know where I am. I can’t think—I can only feel.
The fire moves through me like memory, like violence—hot, invasive, and final.
Another stab slices across my abdomen. Then higher, near my heart.
I try to crawl away—anywhere—but my body won’t obey. My vision blurs, then tunnels, then splits into flashes. Red. White. Red again.
I scream again, but it breaks off halfway. Then nothing.
My body drops limp against the floor.
And the darkness takes me under.
****
The world is white.
Soft and endless—no horizon, no ceiling, no source. Just light. Blinding. It smells like… lilies. The kind we left on her grave.
My feet don’t remember moving, but I’m standing. My back presses against a wall—or the idea of one. The room forms around me. A bed. White sheets. White curtains breathing softly in a breeze I can’t feel. Everything here pulses faintly, like it’s alive beneath the stillness.
She lies there.
Giovanna.
Hair like silk, dark and fanned out around her. Skin flawless, untroubled. Her chest rises and falls in rhythm with a breath that doesn’t belong to me but syncs with my own.
She’s dressed in white. A sheer, flowing slip, thin straps barely clinging to her shoulders. The hem skims her ankles. Her hands are folded loosely over her stomach, but one slides slightly as if welcoming the heat beside her.
Beside her, a figure sits at the edge of the bed.
Cassian.
His posture is folded slightly inward, one hand resting beside her shoulder, the other on his thigh. He’s dressed in white too—a linen shirt unbuttoned at the throat, sleeves rolled just enough to show the veins along his forearms.
He looks down at her with something that doesn’t belong in the waking world.
He bends.
His lips meet hers.
And I feel it. I feel the warm sensation of his lips on mine.
A heavy warmth pours through my mouth, my jaw, down my throat. My lips tingle. My eyes flutter. A low sound builds in my chest—unbidden, breathy.
He kisses her again, deeper now, and the sensation pulls taut through me. My nipples harden. My thighs press together. Heat blooms at my core, startling and electric. I feel his tongue inside my mouth.
I gasp and pull away but he isn’t here, he is with her, over there. So—why?
His hand moves. Grazes her collarbone. The strap of her dress slips. The silk glides off her shoulder like water.
I flinch. My hand flies to my shoulder and finds it bare.
Giovanna sighs, lips parting. Her head tilts as Cassian’s mouth finds the curve of her neck. Her breath hitches. My knees nearly buckle. I grasp the wall beside me—if it is a wall at all—to stay standing.
A sound escapes her. A low, breathy moan and my mouth parts, letting a moan escape me too.
I feel it in my spine.
My nipples ache. A throb pulses low and deep and hot.
Cassian’s hand slides downward, past her ribs, over the curve of her waist. My muscles twitch in anticipation. I feel hands roaming my body.
He kisses her again, harder. His hand disappears beneath the hem of her gown. Her legs shift and so do mine.
His hand cups between her thighs. Fingers gentle. Then—pressing in.
Giovanna’s back arches and so does mine. I choke. A cry bursts from my mouth, cut short as pleasure detonates inside me, sharp and real.
His fingers move inside her—but my walls clench around him. I pant. Sweat beads along my brow as I throw my head back to take in his hands.
My hips move, desperate and automatic, following a rhythm not mine—but now is.
Cassian curls his fingers. I cry out again.
He watches Giovanna’s face—so still, so reverent, his eyes full of something dark and soft and consuming.
But I see everything. I feel everything.
My pulse pounds in my ears. My lips are swollen, parted, desperate.
He leans down, whispers something against her mouth. And I whisper it with him. Not knowing the words. But speaking them anyway.
His palm presses flat against her pelvis as he moves inside her, his pace steady, coaxing something deeper, wetter, more desperate.
I reach forward—toward the bed, toward her, toward him.
And Giovanna’s eyes open, she turns to me and everything stops.
We’re breathing the same breath. My fingers rest like hers do. Cassian doesn’t see me. But somehow—he knows. His hand pauses inside her. His head turns.
Not toward Giovanna. Toward me.
And then it goes dark again.