Chapter 24
The morning light was thin and anemic. Too pale to be comforting, too dim to chase away the shadows that clung stubbornly to the corners of my room. I sat curled in the window seat, a blanket wrapped around my shoulders, Poe, leaning in attentively from his perch on the windowsill.
In my lap lay a small, time-worn volume of Edgar Allan Poe’s tales, the spine cracked, the pages feathered by age. It was one of many I had requested brought up in my confinement since I knew it was Poe’s favorite.
I smiled at him as I read the final lines of the tale of William Wilson, a tale of a man haunted by his doppelg?nger… a conscience wearing flesh. A horror born from within.
It seemed quite fitting for the situation I found myself in.
“In me didst thou exist—and, in my death, see by this image, which is thine own, how utterly thou hast murdered thyself.”
Poe hopped closer, talons clicking lightly against the wood.
“Two shadows!” he croaked sharply. “One bone!”
I startled violently, clutching the worn book. His wings flared once, twice—agitated, urgent, his black eyes glittering like obsidian struck by flame.
“Two shadows! One bone!” he repeated with a rising urgency, hopping in a small, frantic circle.
I stared at him, brows furrowing.
“Two shadows…” I murmured, tasting the words as if they held a key I had overlooked. My gaze drifted down to the open page, the inked name, William Wilson, leering up at me.
“A double,” I whispered. “A mirrored image. A second self…”
Poe’s feathers puffed, his head bobbing emphatically.
My chest tightened painfully. Was he speaking of the story? Of me? Of my fraying mind? Or of something far darker moving beneath the surface of Blackthorn?
“Poe…” I breathed, eyes widening. “What are you trying to tell me?”
The raven fell abruptly silent. He turned his head to the window with a sudden whip-like motion, as if sensing something approaching.
I closed the book with slow, deliberate care. The soft thud of the cover meeting the pages rang out with finality.
Before I could let my mind unravel the knot he’d flung at my feet, a gentle knock sounded at my chamber door.
Poe chattered under his breath, feathers bristling as he turned toward the sound, his black eyes sharp with something unreadable.
“Master,” he exclaimed. “Master is home.”
I rose, the blanket slipping from my shoulder. I smoothed my skirts, heart thudding painfully, and crossed the room.
When I opened the door, I nearly forgot how to breathe.
Sylum stood there.
It had been days, long, terrible days of silence and isolation. Days of wondering whether he was plotting my confinement or my salvation. Days of craving him with a desperation that felt both shameful and inevitable.
Now here he was, hair slightly mussed, shoulders tense beneath his dark coat, eyes shadowed with something achingly human.
He looked as though he were afraid I might shut the door in his face.
“Lucy…” he murmured, voice low, the single word laden with hesitation. “May I come in?”
A knot formed in my throat.
Longing slammed into me with the force of a wave.
Guilt followed, sharp and acidic. And beneath it all pulsed the strangest, most terrible truth.
Now that I was nearly convinced of my own unsteadiness—nearly certain that I had mistaken shadows for monsters and illusions for violence—the weight of what I had accused him of crushed me.
This man—my tormentor, my haven, my beloved, my executioner—had borne every hysterical accusation, every scream, every fracture of my mind… and had still come back.
I stepped back, silent, granting him room to enter.
The moment Sylum crossed the threshold, Poe launched from the windowsill with a flurry of black feathers and glided straight to him. The raven landed on Sylum’s shoulder with an eager hop and pressed his beak to Sylum’s cheek in a soft, affectionate nuzzle.
Sylum huffed a quiet laugh and lifted a hand to scratch beneath Poe’s beak. “Hello, old friend,” he murmured to the bird, voice soft as velvet.
Poe let out a pleased trill.
Ravens remember. My governess had taught me that when I was a girl. She’d said that they could recall faces, cruelty, kindness, and even betrayal. If Sylum had ever harmed him—if he had so much as raised a hand in irritation or anger—Poe would not have greeted him like a lover reunited.
No. What I saw that night… what I thought I saw… lived only in the twisting labyrinth of my mind.
Sylum turned to me then.
The smile he offered was hesitant, fragile at the edges, as if he feared it might be unwelcome. His dark eyes searched my face as though bracing for another storm of tears, accusations or madness.
“I’ve missed you,” he sighed. “I just… wasn’t certain if you would see me.”
His voice cracked on the last word, causing my heart to splinter.
My throat constricted. “Of course I would have.”
He stepped forward, slowly, offering me every opportunity to retreat. When he was close enough, he reached out, warm fingers brushing mine.
“Lucy,” he murmured, voice thick with remorse, “I am so sorry for everything you’ve been through. I should have been here. I should have listened better. I should have—”
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “Don’t apologize. You’ve done nothing wrong. I’ve—” The words caught painfully in my throat. “I’ve made things so terrible. I should have believed you… I should have admitted that I didn’t feel quite myself.”
He frowned, brushing a knuckle along my cheek with the gentlest touch. “You’ve been frightened. That is not a sin.”
“I said terrible things,” I breathed. “I accused you of… of things I can’t even bear to repeat.”
“You were suffering,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m only grateful you’re safe now.”
Safe.
I didn’t feel safe. Not from myself. Not from the truth twisting like a knife in my ribs.
But I leaned into his touch anyway. Because I wanted to believe him. Because some fragile, desperate part of me needed to believe him.
“Sylum…” I hesitated, afraid the question might shatter what small peace this moment held. But I had to know. It was the one thing I knew had been real.
“I’ve had much time to think these past few days and I desperately wish to ask you something… will you answer me honestly?”
His brow creased, but he nodded. “Of course.”
“It’s about Lydia.”
His body went still. So still I feared he had stopped breathing.
“Why,” I continued, “did Nelly say she was… favored? I don’t understand. I need to.”
A long heavy silence stretched between us, thick with unspoken grief.
Sylum exhaled slowly, leading me to the set of highback chairs that sat opposite the fireplace.
He sank into the chair opposite mine, elbows braced on his knees, hands clasped. He stared at the floor for a moment before lifting his eyes to mine.
“She was my sister,” he admitted.
I inhaled sharply, but didn’t dare interrupt him.
“My half-sister,” he clarified. “My father… he had an affair with an actress in London. I didn’t know about Lydia until I became Duke. I found her—found them—and offered her mother whatever help she needed.”
His mouth tightened, brittle with memory. “She slammed the door in my face.”
I said nothing. Could say nothing.
“When Lydia turned eighteen,” he continued, “she came here. Alone. Her mother had passed. She had nowhere else to go.” He raked a hand through his hair, taking a deep breath before continuing.
“I wanted to sponsor her. Raise her as a lady. Give her a chance at a proper life. But my aunt refused, and Lydia… Lydia didn’t want that either.”
“What did she want?” I asked softly.
He looked at me then, really looked, and the sorrow in his eyes nearly undone me.
“A place,” he replied. “A purpose. So I gave her a position in my household. Not out of impropriety, not out of affection of the sort you feared, but out of duty. And… and love. A brother’s love.”
A sharp, aching breath escaped me.
Oh God.
What had I done?
“I never told anyone,” he said. “Save for my aunt and Mrs. Ashby.”
A hollow, sickening weight settled in my stomach, like I had swallowed something rancid.
His sister.
His sister.
Lydia… who may have died by my hand.
I suddenly felt ill. Every doubt I had forced away in the days before came crashing back in as memories of all the things I’d supposedly imagined or dreamed played in my mind.
“Lucy?” Sylum’s brow knit. “What is it?”
My throat squeezed painfully as tears rushed hot and sudden to my eyes. “I killed her,” I whispered hoarsely.
His entire body stilled.
“No,” he said sharply. “No, Lucy. Don’t do that. Don’t say that.”
“I did,” I breathed, the words tumbling from me like stones rolling down a cliff. “Your sister… your family. How can you even look at me?” My voice cracked. “You should hate me. You should loathe the sight of me.”
He moved from his seat, kneeling in front of me, reaching for my hands. I jerked free, pressing myself against the back of the chair.
A tremor ran through him. “Lucy, listen to me. What happened to Lydia was an accident. An accident.” His voice gentled, though his eyes were fierce with conviction. “She fell. That’s what the coroner said. That is what I saw.”
“But I—” My breath hitched. “I remember things. I see pieces. She was holding my wrists and I hit her… she screamed and I heard a cracking sound…”
“You were hallucinating or dreaming,” Sylum said firmly. “Perhaps you were sleepwalking. You were terrified and unwell.
“There was blood on my nightgown, Sylum.” My voice rose, wobbling on the edge of hysteria. “What if parts of it were real? What if I imagined some things and… and others actually happened?” I gripped my temples as the memories curled like tiny phantom fingers around my thoughts.
His hands framed my face before I could recoil, gentle but unyielding, anchoring me.
“Lucy. Look at me.”
I did. I wish I hadn’t. Because there was sorrow in his eyes. And fear. And raw, undeniable love.
“You did not kill Lydia,” he promised, slow and deliberate. “I swear to you, on everything I have ever been, you didn’t.”
“But—”
“Lucy.” His thumbs brushed the dampness from beneath my eyes. “You saw things that weren’t real. You said yourself that your memories are twisted. Half-dreams. Nightmares.” He swallowed hard. “I know you’re frightened, but you must trust me on this.”
Trust.
Such a small word. Such an impossible request.
My breath quivered as I searched his face—his earnest expression, his steady hands, the warmth in his voice that didn’t match the cold suspicion gnawing at me.
He sensed my hesitation, felt it like a shift in the air between us.
His voice softened. “I would tell you the truth, even if it broke you. I would tell you because I love you.” His jaw clenched. “And you didn’t kill her.”
The words soothed something jagged inside me, but not enough. Not nearly enough. Because beneath the soft reassurance… another thought lurked.
If that had been real, then what else might be?
The room began to slant slightly, a pounding pulse rang faintly in my ears.
I closed my eyes, willing it away.
His hands slid down my arms, then fell away entirely.
“I’ll let you rest,” he said finally.
When I opened my eyes again, he was already slipping out the door.