Chapter 17 #2
There, beside me in the grass, lay a knife, its silver blade slick and glinting, a thin line of crimson dripping from its edge. Next to it, half-buried in the dew-soaked earth, was a single red rose.
The petals were bruised. The stem torn.
Sylum reached toward them, then stopped, as if touching them would burn him.
“Lucy,” he repeated, his voice low, uncertain. “What happened here?”
But I couldn’t answer.
Because I no longer knew for certain.
Poe settled on the low branch of a hedge nearby, his feathers ruffled and damp. He tilted his head, black eyes gleaming.
“Two shadows. One bone,” he crooned softly.
Sylum looked up at the bird, his eyes narrowing slightly. His jaw tightened as he gathered me into his arms. “Enough, Poe,” he scolded firmly, though his voice shook.
My head fell against his shoulder, the scent of him filling my senses as he carried me swiftly toward the manor. The world around us blurred, the fog curling thickly at our heels like it meant to drag us back.
Gasps rippled through the hall as we entered. Servants froze mid-step, eyes wide, whispers fluttering like startled birds. At the top of the stairs, Isolde stood waiting, her face pale with shock, though her expression hardened as her gaze fell on me.
“Good heavens,” she hissed, one gloved hand clutching her chest. “What has she done now?”
Sylum ignored her, his voice sharp as a blade. “Mrs. Ashby! Fetch the doctor at once. And send for Nelly!”
“Sylum, please—” My protest came out in a breathless, panicked croak. “A doctor isn’t necessary.”
But he did not so much as glance at me. He only held me closer as he strode up the staircase, his boots striking the floor in frantic rhythm.
Within moments, I was back in my room. The door closed and the quiet pressed in. Sylum lowered me carefully onto the bed, his movements gentle but purposeful.
“Stay still,” he said firmly, his voice low.
He began to unfasten my gown, the ruined fabric stiff with blood and torn lace. My heart hammered, my mind spinning as his hands moved gently over me.
“What are you doing?” I asked, my voice shaking.
“Assessing your injuries,” he replied simply, his eyes never leaving mine.
“Sylum, I told you I’m fine.”
“Lucy,” he interrupted softly, “you were found in the garden, unconscious, with a knife.”
His words settled between us. My throat closed.
“I—” I faltered, searching for an excuse, for anything. I refused to tell him the truth...
“I used it to cut the rose.”
A long silence. He stilled, watching my face with that piercing scrutiny of his. “There are garden shears by the roses,” he countered finally.
I swallowed hard. “Yes… I suppose that would have been the wiser choice.”
He said nothing, only turned away. I watched him cross to the washstand, pour water into the basin, and work the soap into a clean cloth with slow, deliberate motions. When he returned, he knelt beside the bed, gently cleaning away the blood on my hands.
Blood that I wasn’t even sure was my own.
“Are you happy here, Lucy?” he asked suddenly, his voice quieter now.
I blinked, startled by the question.
He didn’t wait for an answer. “Are you happy with me?”
His tone wasn’t cold, just unbearably fragile, like something breaking beneath the weight of its own fear.
My lips parted, confusion giving way to understanding. He thought I’d…
“You think I wanted to hurt myself,” I exhaled quietly.
Sylum’s eyes lifted to mine, dark and searching. “I think you’ve been through a great deal,” he said carefully. “And that perhaps you haven’t been sleeping well for some time.”
A tremor ran through me—of anger, of heartbreak.
“You think I’m mad,” I whispered, the words breaking on a sob as they left me. “Like my mother.”
He didn’t deny it and that hurt most.
“Lucy,” he began, reaching for me, but I pulled back as if burned.
“Don’t,” I snapped. “Don’t look at me that way. I’m not insane! You—someone is poisoning me!” The words spewed from my lips before I could reel them back.
“You think I’m poisoning you?”
The laugh that escaped me was half-sob. It was too late to hide the truth now. “I saw Elizabeth in the garden. She said you would kill me too…”
Tears welled hot behind my eyes, spilling before I could stop them. I wiped at them furiously, the salt stinging my raw skin.
“You think I killed Elizabeth?” he murmured, his own voice fraying.
“Stop! Stop repeating what I say as a question!” I cried, looking up at him through blurred vision.
He fell silent.
And it was worse than any accusation, worse than shouting, worse than disbelief. It was the kind of silence that swallowed the air, the kind that made the walls lean in to listen. A silence so heavy it felt as though the house itself waited for what might shatter next.
Poe croaked softly from his perch by the window, his voice low and strange, as if even he mourned the space between us.
“Nevermore,” he murmured, and the word fell into the quiet like a final judgment.
A soft knock broke the moment. The door cracked open and Nelly slipped inside, balancing a tray laden with bandages and tea. Her eyes darted from Sylum to me, understanding more than she dared to ask.
Sylum rose slowly, his features carved from exhaustion and something perilously close to despair. He looked at me for a long moment—a long, searching, helpless moment—before stepping back.
“I’ll return,” he promised quietly, “once the doctor arrives.”
He turned and left the room.
Nelly looked from me to the door, her face taut with concern, but she didn’t dare ask.
I stared after him, left alone with the questions echoing louder than any scream. What if I was wrong? What if I wasn’t?
What if I would never know the difference again?