Chapter 14
My gaze drifted to Poe.
The raven slept upon his perch like a small, shadowed sentinel.
His head was tucked into the glossy fan of his breast, feathers rising and falling with a soft, rhythmic ease.
For a heartbeat, envy prickled through me.
How perfectly he surrendered to darkness, untroubled by visions or doubts or the weight of a house that watched as keenly as any beast.
Carefully, I rose from the chair. The floor was cold beneath my bare feet, each step deliberate, measured. I moved to the door and paused, glancing over my shoulder.
“Sleep well, Poe,” I whispered.
He didn’t stir.
With quiet precision, I turned the latch and eased the door open. The hinges gave a faint groan, thin but unbearably loud in the silence. I winced, waiting for some retaliation from the dark, but nothing stirred. So I slipped into the corridor and drew the door shut behind me.
The hallway stretched long and solemn before me. The sconces burned low, their flames guttering like fevered breaths. The light was thin and sickly, barely enough to illuminate the edges of the portraits that lined the walls.
I considered turning back.
But then I heard it.
A voice.
Clipped in that cold way only aristocratic women can manage.
It drifted upward from somewhere below.
I stilled, heart thudding in my throat.
Isolde.
Her tone was sharp, measured, hushed.
I crept forward, my hand skimming the wall for balance, the faint glow of the sconces guiding me to the staircase. The grand hall lay below, shrouded in darkness save for a thin bar of golden light spilling from beneath the heavy door to Sylum’s study.
Another voice answered her—lower, steady, and unmistakably Sylum’s.
My pulse quickened.
Careful as a mouse, I descended the stairs, each step a plea for silence. When I reached the bottom, I pressed close to the wall, hovering in the narrow cradle of shadow beside the study door.
“…you cannot keep her here,” Isolde hissed.
Her words were muffled but clear enough to chill me.
Sylum’s response came slower, his tone weary but resolute. “You will not speak of her that way. She is my wife.”
A long silence followed, broken only by the distant crackle of fire.
Then Isolde’s voice again, quieter this time, but full of venom. “You are a fool if you think affection will save her. You know what runs in her blood, Sylum. You weren’t there. You didn’t see her eyes… she was completely out of her senses.”
My breath caught. My fingernails dug into the doorframe.
A sudden crash that sounded like glass shattering against wood, jolted through the silence. I flinched as though shards had burst around me too.
“Madness is only excusable when one is titled and wealthy, is that it, Aunt?” Sylum’s voice was cold, low, and his words slurred slightly as if he’d had a bit too much to drink.
And then the dowager’s voice, colder still. “Madness is excusable when hidden, but you’ve brought it into your home. Into your name. And if the truth comes out, it will destroy you both.”
Sylum’s laugh was cold and cruel. “Madness lived in this house long before I married Lucy.” He paused, his voice strained with emotion when he next spoke.
“Madness clings to our name. I share my very face with madness, or have you so easily forgotten?”
The wind howled faintly beyond the walls, rattling the panes like distant laughter. I leaned closer, my heart hammering so violently I feared it might give me away.
Their voices hushed further and I slowly pressed my ear to the door. Even then, I could just barely make out broken words.
“… you can’t protect her.”
“… I know what I’m doing…”
“Have you even told her the truth…”
“… you should send her away.”
My heart began to pound loudly in my ears.
Inside the study, the floor creaked softly as though someone turned and paced. Sylum’s voice came again, firmer now, edged in exhaustion.
“Enough, Aunt. I will not discuss this further. Lucy is my wife. That is the end of it.”
There was a pause, a sharp exhale of disapproval, then the rustle of skirts.
I stepped back at once, pressing myself into the shadows and slipping behind the nearest corner just as the latch gave a soft metallic sigh.
Isolde swept past me in a rush of silk and bitterness, her perfume trailing behind like something wilting—sweet at first, then sour beneath, like flowers left to wither in the sun.
Her chin was high, her eyes bright and sharp as cut glass even in the dim corridor.
I held my breath, willing myself smaller, invisible, until the echo of her heels faded down the hall.
Only then did I look back toward the sliver of light coming from under Sylum’s study door.
I couldn’t make myself move toward it.
Nor could I make myself turn away.
Above me, wings burst open with a sudden clap. I flinched violently as Poe swooped from the darkened rafters, a black streak cutting the quiet like a blade.
“Deep into that darkness peering,” he screeched, the words echoing down the corridor, “long I stood there, wondering, fearing!”
“Poe!” I whisper-hissed, darting a frantic glance toward the door. “Quiet!” I waved my arm wildly around the corner, hoping to lure him away before…
The study door opened.
Sylum stepped into the hall, the golden light from the study spilling around him like a halo carved from fire. Our eyes locked—mine wide, his narrowed in suspicion and something else entirely that I hoped was amusement.
He folded his arms slowly over his chest, one dark brow rising in the kind of slow, deliberate arch that told me I was already caught.
Poe swooped once in a proud circle and landed neatly on my shoulder.
The traitorous bird fluffed his wings, his head tilting smugly. “My Lenore,” he breathed in a silken croon.
Sylum’s gaze flicked from Poe to me, a muscle tightening in his jaw.
“Eavesdropping, were you?” he asked, voice low, curious.
Heat flamed up my neck. “I… no, of course not! I was only—”
“Haunting the corridors again?” His tone softened, a thread of teasing woven through reprimand.
I turned a murderous glare on Poe. “Little snitch,” I muttered under my breath.
He gave a smug trill and nuzzled the side of my face like a devil seeking absolution.
Sylum sighed, dragging a hand down his face as if uncertain whether to scold me or laugh. “It seems no one in this house cares that I am the Lord of this manor,” he murmured dryly. “Perhaps I should begin locking doors at night.”
The dim lamplight danced across his features, half-illuminating, half-shadowing them, and for the briefest moment, I thought he looked almost haunted himself.
“Come,” he insisted at last, his voice quiet. “Before my aunt comes back and decides to add nocturnal prowling to your catalogue of sins.”
Poe clicked his beak indignantly, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like, “Nevermore.”
I followed, heart thudding in my chest, the echo of his footsteps sharp against the marble.
Poe, the little traitor, flew in after us, perching primly atop his gilded cage before hopping inside to peck at his seed as if he hadn’t just betrayed me.
Sylum closed the door behind us with a quiet click that felt far louder than it should have.
The lamplight flickered across his features. His white shirt clung to him, open at the throat, the faint sheen of sweat on his skin catching the light. He leaned back against the desk, crossing his arms over his chest as he watched me, silent and assessing.
The air between us thickened, the scent of him engulfing me.
I swallowed hard, smoothing the fabric of my nightgown between my fingers. “Have you been drinking?” I blurted before I could stop myself. The words hung there, foolish and small.
His brow arched, amused. His gaze drifted pointedly to the half-drained bottle on the desk. He lifted his glass, swirled the amber liquid, and took a slow, sinfully confident sip. When he lowered it, the corners of his mouth curved into something between a smirk and a warning.
“Have you been eavesdropping?”
My mouth fell open. “No!” I said far too quickly.
His smirk deepened, the faintest gleam of humor touching his eyes as he set the glass down.
“Then no, my love,” he murmured, the endearment rolling off his tongue with emphasis, “I haven’t been drinking either.”
For a long moment, neither of us moved. The silence pulsed, electric and dangerous. Poe shifted in his cage, feathers rustling, as if even he could feel the charge between us.
I couldn’t look away from Sylum’s eyes. They were darker tonight, rimmed in exhaustion, yet still gleaming with something unspoken—guilt or desire, I couldn’t tell.
Perhaps both.
The tension was killing me.
I threw my hands up, the sound of my own exhale sharp in the stillness. “Well, go on then,” I sighed, unable to bear the silence a moment longer. “If you mean to punish me for eavesdropping, do it and be done with it.”
A dangerous smile tugged at his lips as his gaze slipped over me. Slowly. Deliberately. His eyes traced the fall of my hair, the curve of my neck, and lower still, to where my nightdress clung scandalously to my skin, the thin muslin leaving little to the imagination.
I felt the chill of the room vanish beneath the heat of his stare. My breath caught, my pulse stuttered.
When he finally met my eyes again, something dark and unguarded flashed there. “Punish you?” he murmured, his voice a low, velvety breath that sent a shiver racing down my spine.
He moved toward me with the slow certainty of a man who already knew the outcome of this moment—knew it and welcomed it. His shadow swallowed mine, the lamplight gilding his features in gold.
His words brushed the air between us like a caress. “I could think of several things I’d like to do to you,” he murmured, “and none of them involve pain.”
My pulse quickened until I thought he might hear it beating in my throat. The flickering lamplight turned his eyes near black, their depth a quiet storm that pulled at something fragile inside me.