Chapter 24
Chapter
Twenty-Four
The hearth was cold. No one had been in the cottage for days and the chill had settled deep in the aged wood and stone.
Eliza sat in the center of the room, her wrists bound tightly behind the back of a chair, her shoulders aching from the strain.
The rope bit into her skin each time she shifted, but she dared not sit still.
Stillness invited despair, and despair was death.
Outside, the storm—quite unusual so early in the year—had begun in earnest. The wind moaned through the cracks between the shutters, carrying with it the scent of snow and the faint pinging of ice as it struck the windows.
By morning, Dunrake would be buried, and so would she if she did not find a way out.
She had been a fool. All the talk of the curse, all of Helena’s rambling about it over the years, and she’d assumed that simply marrying him would be enough—after all it was further than anyone else had gotten.
She’d assumed then that she’d be safe under Gabriel’s roof, beneath his protection.
But she should have known better. The curse did not need magic to do its work.
All it required was envy, malice, and the endless willingness of men to believe the worst of women like her.
Her mind worked furiously, testing the knots that bound her wrists, the give of the chair beneath her.
It was solid oak, old but sturdy. Her fingers were numb, but she could still feel the fibers of the rope beneath her skin.
If she could twist her wrists just so, perhaps she could loosen one.
The thought was fragile as a candle flame, but it was all that stood between her and hopelessness.
A sound outside—a footstep on the threshold. Eliza froze, her breath catching in her throat. The latch lifted with a slow, deliberate scrape, and the door opened to admit a gust of icy wind—and a man’s silhouette against the pale wash of moonlight.
Reverend Mullins stepped into the room. In his hand, he carried a bucket from their small well.
He closed the door carefully behind him, setting the latch with the same care he might have used closing a prayer book. His expression was calm, almost serene. The only color in his face came from the wind, a faint flush that made his eyes seem all the paler.
When he paused in front of her, he lifted the bucket and tossed the contents over her. The icy water made her gasp in shock.
“Good evening, Lady Blackburn,” he said, his voice smooth and low. “I fear you find yourself in rather uncomfortable circumstances.”
Eliza’s voice was hoarse when she regained her breath enough to speak. “You—why are you doing this?”
He smiled faintly. “I am doing only what must be done. You should not take it personally. You have, after all, played your part quite admirably.”
She stared at him, confusion and disbelief warring with fear as she tried desperately not to shiver from cold. “What are you talking about?”
“Restoration,” he said simply, stepping closer.
“This land has long been blighted by your family’s wickedness.
For generations, the Ashcombe women have seduced and destroyed the men of Hawthorne blood—of which I am, albeit not legitimately.
The man who was my father, the man who was to wed my mother, strayed from her the moment he saw your grandmother.
In her wickedness, she stole what should rightfully have been mine. ”
“You talk of my wickedness, but what of your greed? That’s what this is, after all. Greed. Covetousness. You are angry because Gabriel has what you think should be yours,” she said. Of course, acknowledging his own sins would never occur. Those eager to cast stones rarely looked in mirrors.
“It’s not about greed or coveting! It’s about what is right…
what is fair. What I am owed and what would have been mine but for your wretched family,” he spat the words with such force that white spittle formed at the corners of his mouth.
Like the foaming of a rabid dog. “Witches, every one of you. And now you’ve ensnared another—poor, misguided Gabriel Hawthorne, who has made himself a laughingstock before God and man by marrying you. ”
Eliza’s stomach turned. “You’re mad.”
He crouched before her, folding his hands as though in prayer. “Madness is the disease of those who doubt their purpose. I do not doubt mine. It is to restore order, the rightful order of things.”
“You are of Hawthorne blood,” she whispered. “And as cursed as he is.”
The Reverend smiled in a twisted and macabre fashion.
“When there are no Ashcombe women to roam this earth, there will no longer be a curse. You’ll die first. I will deposit your cloak on the river bank so it will appear you have drowned…
not the first of your line to die in such a fashion.
That is what they used to do to witches isn’t it? Death by drowning or the noose?”
Eliza fought back a shiver, not wanting to give him the satisfaction.
“And when the Earl finds evidence of your death, in his despair he will take his own life. Then I will take the money my father had the decency to settle upon me and I will purchase Ravenswood outright… Restoration, Eliza. That’s what this is about. Restoration and restitution.”
Her pulse pounded painfully against the ropes. “No one will believe it. No one will believe any of it! Do you truly think you can get away with this?”
“I will do what must be done and damn the consequences,” Mullins said quietly.
“The village will grieve him, of course. And you—well, they will grieve you, too, in their way. The tragic Lady Blackburn, who could not bear the burden of her own sin. Such a pity, they will say, that she chose to end it. And when they discover the Earl’s body nearby, they will whisper of curses and madness, of how love turned to despair.
The story will write itself, just as it has in every previous generation. ”
He rose to his feet, pacing slowly before her as though delivering a sermon. “By the week’s end, Dunrake will return to its senses. The Ashcombe line will be extinguished, and the Hawthornes, as well—what remains of them shall reclaim the land of their forebears. It will be as God intended.”
“You’re the devil’s own fool,” Eliza said bitterly. “You’ll only damn yourself.”
He turned to her, and for a moment the veneer of civility cracked, revealing something dark and vicious beneath. “Better damned for righteousness than rewarded for sin.”
He moved to the table near the hearth. Her cloak lay there, draped neatly over a chair, damp at the hem. He touched it with almost reverent care.
“I must lay the groundwork for your sad ending.”
“Why not just drown me in the river then?” She challenged. If he intended to put her in the river, he would have to untie her and that would at least be a slim chance to escape.
“Because then I would not get to see you die… and I need to see that. I need to be certain. I allowed sentiment to stay my hand once, but not again.”
Her heart pounded. “Gabriel will come for me.”
Mullins smiled. “Of course he will. That is the beauty of it. I shall go to him myself, tell him I found your cloak, that I fear the worst. He’ll follow me to the river, desperate, broken—and there, it will end. A tragedy fit for a sermon.”
He turned toward the door, drawing his cloak tight about him. “I suggest you pray, Lady Blackburn. You have precious little time left to make your peace.”
When the door closed behind him, the wind rushed in through the cracks again, colder now, crueler. Eliza’s breath trembled in the stillness. The sound of his footsteps faded down the path, swallowed by the rising howl of the storm.
For a long moment, she sat motionless, listening to the wind, the creak of the old beams, the faint whistle of air through the chimney. Then she began to twist her wrists again, slowly, methodically, feeling for the smallest give in the rope.
She would not die here. Not in this place. Not tonight.
She thought of Gabriel—his hands, his voice, the way his eyes softened when he looked at her—and used that memory like a blade against the panic that threatened to swallow her.
If she was to survive, she would have to save herself.
But the rope was slick with her own blood now, her strength nearly gone. Her lips were numb, her vision blurring from the cold and exhaustion. And still the storm grew louder, the wind battering the shutters with sudden, violent bursts.
In her mind, Helena’s voice rose again. There may come a day, my darling, when words are all that stand between you and the dark.
Eliza’s throat tightened. She had mocked those lessons, dismissed the whispered incantations as folly. But now—now, when reason had failed and mercy seemed a distant dream—she found herself whispering the words her grandmother had once spoken over her in the firelight.
The first syllables were halting, uncertain.
Then, as she repeated them, her voice steadied.
The language was old, older than English, the cadence rolling like a tide.
Each phrase carried a strange, vibrating weight, the air thickening with it.
Her pulse thrummed in rhythm with the chant, the sound building until it filled the little cottage.
She could feel it then—the shift. The air pressed down, heavy and still, the hairs rising along her arms. Somewhere deep within her, something ancient stirred, answering the call.
The latch lifted.
The door opened.
Reverend Mullins stepped back inside, a sneer twisting his mouth. “Pray all you wish,” he began coldly. “It will not—”
He broke off, his voice strangled. His hand flew to his throat.
Eliza pinned her gaze on him, the words coming more quickly to her lips. And she felt it. She felt the power of them course through her.
He staggered forward, eyes bulging, mouth working soundlessly. His face darkened, mottled with violet and blue. He dropped to his knees, choking, clawing at his collar as though invisible fingers had closed around his neck.
“Stop,” she gasped, horrified. “Please, stop!”
But the air was alive now, humming with energy that could not be undone. The Reverend convulsed once, a ghastly sound escaping him—and then he fell forward, striking the floor with a heavy, final thud.
Silence descended, sudden and absolute.
For several heartbeats, Eliza could only stare. The firelight caught the whites of his eyes—wide, unseeing, fixed on the ceiling. One hand was still clenched at his throat, the other outstretched toward her as if in accusation.
Her stomach lurched. She could scarcely breathe past the shock, the sick disbelief of what she had done. She had called upon the old power—and for the first time—it had answered.
She had wanted to protect herself. That had been the spell she murmured, and the end result showed the truth of it. As long as he lived, she would never be safe, and so his life had ended.
A gust of wind slammed against the shutters, followed by the sharp, relentless ping of ice against the panes.
The door, not fully fastened, flew open and the cold win whipped through the cottage.
The temperature plummeted, the frigid air biting deeper into her skin.
Her breath came in shallow bursts, misting before her eyes.
Outside, the storm raged and she had no protection against it.
And though her enemy lay dead at her feet, she was still bound, still trapped in the freezing dark. The ropes cut deeper into her raw skin as she twisted and strained. Her fingers were too numb now even to feel them.
She could hear the wind howling, the timbers groaning beneath its force. Her eyes burned with tears that froze before they fell. “Gabriel,” she whispered, her voice breaking.
He would come. He must.
But as the snow began to beat harder against the windows, piling up in the open doorway, the last trace of warmth fled the room, and the night closed around her like a shroud.