Chapter 15
“What did you hear?” Sylum asked, his tone casual.
I now sat across from him, my knees tucked under my nightgown innocently as if he hadn’t just taken me over his desk mere moments before.
“Enough to know that your aunt thinks I’ve gone mad… like my mother.”
He looked up then, his eyes meeting mine across his desk as he leaned back in his chair.
“And have you?”
The question cut somewhere deep, but his tone was neither accusatory or judgmental.
“No,” I replied firmly. Whether a lie or the truth, the word rolled off my tongue easily.
Sylum watched me closely, assessing, perhaps dissecting that singular word for a long moment.
“You should know that I wouldn’t care if you were,” he replied. “Nothing would change my feelings for you.”
The words struck something tender and terrible in me. My chest ached from the declaration. I opened my mouth—perhaps to thank him, perhaps to ask how deeply he meant it—but the moment shattered when the study door opened without so much as a polite tap.
The maid, Lydia, stood there. Her hands were clasped, posture flawless, eyes far too wide and soft to be innocent. The firelight gleamed against her fair hair, and caught the sheen of perfect, glowing skin. She dipped into a quick curtsy, but her gaze never left Sylum.
The atmosphere shifted instantly.
Sylum’s posture went rigid. The muscle in his jaw ticked once before he spoke.
“Yes, Lydia?”
Her name on his tongue had a softness to it. A familiarity. Something that made my stomach tighten.
I glanced at the clock on the mantle—nearly two… far too late for a maid of her station to be seeking out the lord of the manor… unless…
“Forgive me, Your Grace,” she muttered, voice light, melodic. She stared at him as if I weren’t even in the room. “There seems to be… an issue in the stables.”
Something cold threaded through my spine. My husband’s tone remained even, yet his eyes fixed on hers too intently, searching, perhaps for something unsaid.
Nelly’s earlier words came back to me.
He favors her.
“Thank you, Lydia,” he said finally. “I’ll be right there.”
She lingered. Just long enough to be noticed. When she did leave, her skirts whispered across the floor like the brush of a secret being carried away.
I tried to steady my voice. “What’s happened in the stables? The new foal?”
Sylum hesitated. The expression that crossed his face was brief but telling—a shadow of surprise, confusion, maybe guilt—before he schooled it smooth again.
“Yes,” he answered quickly, standing now and circling the desk. “Or perhaps the mare. She’s been struggling since the birth.”
He reached out, brushing his knuckles over my cheek before pressing a chaste kiss to my forehead. The gesture was tender, but his eyes refused to meet mine.
“I won’t be long,” he murmured.
The door closed behind him with a muted click that sounded far too final.
“Come, Poe,” I sighed, rising from the chair. “Let us go to bed then.”
The bird ruffled his feathers, murmuring something unintelligible before soaring across the room to land on my shoulder.
The corridor was dark and still, and my bedroom waited like a shadowed cocoon, the hearth smoldering low, casting faint golden light across the room. I reached to close the door behind me when Poe gave a sudden flutter and darted toward the nightstand.
I followed his path with a puzzled frown, then froze.
A tray sat there.
I was certain it hadn’t been there when I’d gone downstairs.
The teapot still steamed faintly, as though poured mere minutes before. Two delicate cups sat beside it, a folded napkin, and a slip of paper beside the porcelain.
Poe tilted his head, then gently tapped his beak against the folded note resting beside the cup.
My skin prickled. Slowly, I reached for it.
“For your nerves.
—Mrs. Ashby”
My brows drew together as I read the note over again.
Had Mrs. Ashby brought this to my room after I’d gone?
Poe cawed softly.
I opened the teapot lid, peering suspiciously inside, fearing what I might find, only to scold myself for being so foolish.
No bugs.
No sludge.
Just warm, golden liquid with a soothing floral aroma—honey and lemon, maybe chamomile or something softer.
I stared at it for a long moment.
“It’s from Mrs. Ashby,” I said to Poe, procrastinating still.
He made a small clicking sound, then bobbed his head up and down as if acknowledging my words.
With slow, measured movements, I poured myself a cup. Poe watched silently, his beady eyes oddly solemn. I brought the cup to my lips.
The warmth of it spread through me instantly. Gentle. Sweet. Like something kind and familiar, wrapping around me like a soothing hug.
I finished it all, my eyes slowly growing heavier with each sip.
By the time I climbed into bed with Poe nestled sweetly on the footboard, my limbs were heavy with a quiet stillness. The panic that had curled around my lungs all day finally loosened.
Sleep pulled at me like a tide.
The last thing I saw before darkness took me was the empty tray on my nightstand, and the note still resting beside it.
**********
I awoke some time later, with a violent start.
My heart pounded, too fast, too hard, like I’d been dragged up from drowning. The air was thick, close, and heated. It pressed against my skin as if the room itself were breathing.
My vision swam. Shapes blurred, then steadied. Poe sat on the bedside table, feathers stiff and ruffled, watching me with glossy black eyes that gleamed like polished obsidian.
I tried to sit up, but my body rebelled. My limbs felt heavy, as if filled with sand. The world swayed around me and my tongue tasted sour and oddly metallic.
I stumbled from the bed, clutching the post for balance. The air was suffocating. I needed to breathe, to think.
I staggered to the window, fumbled at the latch, and forced it open. The rush of cold night air struck me like salvation. I leaned out, gulping it down in deep, greedy breaths, the chill prickling my skin.
The moon hung low over the gardens, silver and immense. Mist curled along the ground like restless spirits, winding between the roses and marble statues. For a moment, the world was still. The only sound was the beating of my heart.
Then my eyes caught on something.
Movement.
Two figures stood in the courtyard below.
At first, I thought it must be my vision, the lingering fog in my mind conjuring shapes from shadow. But then the mist shifted, and the moonlight cut through it clean and sharp.
The man was tall, his posture unmistakable. His dark hair tousled by the wind. His hand on the small of a woman’s back.
My lungs constricted.
The woman tilted her head up, the pale gleam of her hair catching the light. Her face was turned toward his, her lips parted in a smile.
Then he kissed her.
Not politely. Not chastely. Deeply. Possessively.
My hand flew to my mouth, a sharp gasp breaking the silence.
I should have turned away. I should have closed the curtains and told myself I was mistaken. But I couldn’t. I wouldn’t.
The man lifted his head, and the moonlight struck his face with perfect clarity.
Sylum.
My body went cold.
It was him. The strong line of his jaw, the curve of his mouth, the familiar way he moved—I would recognize him even if I hadn’t seen his face so clearly.
He said something then, something I couldn’t hear, and the woman lifted her hand to touch his cheek. I couldn’t see her face, but I didn’t need to. There was only one person in this manor with silky golden hair.
Lydia.
Then, as if he felt my gaze, his head turned slowly toward the window.
Our eyes met across the distance for one brief moment.
I stumbled back from the window, my hand slipping from the sill. My knees struck the cold floor. A sob tore from my throat before I could stop it.
The room spun. My vision blurred. The air itself seemed to pulse around me.
It isn’t real, I told myself. It can’t be real.
But the image of him kissing her burned itself behind my eyelids, unrelenting.
I pressed my forehead to my knees and wept until my breath came in shallow gasps. I couldn’t say how long I sat there, crying until it felt my soul might leave me, before something caught my attention.
Click.
The faint creak of a door cut through the fog of my panic. A ribbon of amber light spilled across the floorboards from the adjoining chamber, dancing ripples across the hem of my nightgown.
“Lucy?”
I jerked upright, eyes wild, chest heaving. Sylum stood in the doorway, barefoot and robe-clad, his dark hair tousled by sleep, his brow furrowed in alarm. He looked like a man shaken from a dream.
“What happened?” he asked, crossing the threshold in two swift strides.
Then he was on his knees beside me, pulling me into his arms before I could think to resist. I stiffened, but the warmth of him was a cruel comfort and I found myself relaxing into it.
”Tell me what’s wrong,” he said against the top of my head.
I trembled in his embrace, my breath catching like a snare in my throat. “You…” My voice broke. “Where were you just now?”
He blinked, confusion darkening his eyes. “In my room,” he replied slowly. “I was asleep. I heard you cry out.”
I pulled back just enough to look into his eyes, searching for the lie. But there was no tremble of deceit in them, only concern.
“But I saw you,” I whispered. “Kissing Lydia in the garden.” My chest ached as the truth—my truth—poured from my lips, raw and desperate.
He cupped my face gently, his thumb brushing away a tear. “Whatever you saw, Lucy… it wasn’t real.”
“Two shadows. One bone,” Poe mumbled from the bedside table
My pulse stuttered, dread curling through my stomach. I turned to look at the bird, his black eyes meeting mine, his head tilting slightly as if trying to tell me something important.
Sylum drew me close again, ignoring the raven entirely. “You’re not well,” he murmured. “Something is happening to you, and I don’t know what it is. But, I swear to you, I was in my room.”
His voice wrapped around me, soothing and steady, but my mind recoiled. The vision in the garden hadn’t faded. Our eyes had met in the dark. I knew what I saw.
My body tensed. The trust I’d clung to splintered. He was lying to me.
I tore away from him, scrambling backward, my heart galloping in my throat.
Sylum’s eyes widened with hurt and confusion, but he didn’t pursue. Instead, he raised one hand slowly, as if to calm a spooked horse. “Lucy?”
I stood on shaking legs, wrapping my arms securely around myself, refusing to meet his gaze. I had to stay sharp. I had to remember. One touch, one look, and I’d melt. I always did.
“I saw you,” I seethed through clenched teeth, voice trembling with fury and disbelief. “You were with her. Don’t lie to me, Sylum.”
“I told you,” he assured, bewildered, “I was asleep.”
“Don’t deny it!” I snapped. “I saw you with my own eyes!”
He reached toward me, but I turned, storming toward the door. His hand caught mine just as my fingers brushed the handle.
“Lucy,” he said, low and stern, “You had a dream. A nightmare. I heard you cry out and came to find you. That’s all.”
I shook my head, pressing my fingertips to my temple, trying to hold the shards of my mind together. “No, I saw it! Don’t make me doubt myself!”
“I’m not,” he promised softly. “I wouldn’t.”
But the way his voice cracked sent a ripple of unease through me.
I looked into his face and felt the world tilt. He looked so sincere, so honest.
Too honest.
If he was lying… he was very good at it. And if he wasn’t…
A bitter tremor ran through me. I turned away again, searching for something, anything, to anchor me.
My eyes landed on Poe, now perched atop the mantle, his head cocked at a thoughtful angle.
He blinked once. Twice.
Then, in a low, deliberate murmur, “Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe…”
My breath caught.
He clicked in the back of his throat. “And forget this lost Lenore. Nevermore.”
Nepenthe.
A balm for sorrow.
A poison for the mind.
“The tea,” I breathed.
I turned to Sylum, wild-eyed. “The tea! There was a tray on my nightstand. From Mrs. Ashby!”
I rushed to the table, pointing with frantic certainty. “There was a note!”
But the surface was empty. No teapot. No cup. No note. Just smooth, unmarked wood beneath my fingertips.
I froze, pressing my palm harder against the smooth surface as if the act could conjure the evidence back into existence.
“No…” I cried, shaking my head, frantically searching the floor, the chairs, the bed. “It was here. I swear it was.”
Sylum approached cautiously, eyes scanning the table, then settling on me with a look that made my stomach twist.
“There’s nothing there,” he said carefully. Gently. Like one speaks to a child teetering on a ledge.
I shook my head frantically. “No. That’s not possible. I… I drank it. I saw it.”
“Lucy,” he repeated, voice heavy with pity, “there’s nothing.”
I stared at the empty table. I stared until tears blurred my vision.
I wanted to scream.