Chapter 17
The back of Charlotte’s head throbbed with a dull, insistent pain as she fought to open her eyes.
The air around her was damp and icy, the kind that seeped into her bones and refused to leave.
Somewhere in the distance, she could hear the slow, steady drip of water echoing off stone.
She shivered violently and reached instinctively for her blankets—only to feel rough, frigid stone beneath her fingertips instead of linen sheets.
Her breath caught. She wasn’t in her bed.
Blinking through the haze, she forced her eyes open.
A dim, grayish light revealed a small, rectangular cell.
The walls were rough-hewn and damp, streaked with grime, and an imposing iron door loomed across from her.
It had two narrow slits—one near the top, one at the bottom—and she could see nothing beyond them.
When she tilted her head, she noticed a tiny, barred window high on the wall.
The glass was so filthy it barely admitted light, yet it was enough to confirm the horrifying truth: she was locked away somewhere cold and unknown.
Panic tightened in her chest. Where am I? How did I come to be here?
Then, as if a curtain had been ripped away, memory surged forward. The gardens. Martha. A shadow moving behind her. The sharp, stunning pain at the back of her skull before the world went black.
Charlotte’s stomach turned.
With great effort, she pushed herself upright and leaned against the wall for balance.
Her limbs trembled as though she hadn’t used them in days.
When she reached up to touch the back of her head, her fingers met something sticky—dried blood tangled in her hair.
She drew her hand away, staring at the dark stain on her fingertips, her heart pounding.
How could she have been so foolish? She had trusted Martha and had welcomed her into her confidence, even her home. Why would she betray me? Charlotte’s mind spun through possibilities, but none made sense. Whatever the reason, she was alone now. Alone and trapped.
Forcing herself to focus, she rose on unsteady legs and crossed to the door. She peered through the top slit, her breath fogging the iron as she searched the dim corridor beyond. Nothing—no movement, no sound.
“Hello?” she called, her voice trembling. “Is anyone there? Please—someone help me!”
Her plea echoed back at her, hollow and cruel. She pounded on the door until her hand throbbed, but no one came. The silence that followed was unbearable.
She pressed her forehead against the cold metal, fighting tears. Think, Charlotte. Think. She couldn’t allow fear to consume her. But what was she to do now?
Then from somewhere beyond the wall came a soft voice.
“You may as well conserve your energy,” it said, weary and distinctly feminine. “No one is coming to help you.”
Charlotte startled and spun about, searching the shadows. “Who said that?”
“I’m down here,” came the reply. “Between the walls.”
Charlotte’s eyes darted across the room until she noticed a small gap near the floor at the back of the cell—a single brick had been pried loose.
Crawling towards it, she crouched and peered through the narrow opening.
On the other side, in the dim glow, she saw a woman’s face—pale, smudged with dirt, framed by dark, tangled hair.
“Where are we?” Charlotte asked.
“I wish I knew,” the woman said. “I’ve been here fifteen days. I’ve been keeping count by scratching marks on the wall.”
Charlotte’s throat tightened as she took in the woman’s appearance—the hollowed cheeks, the despair etched into every line of her expression.
“Have you tried to escape?” Charlotte pressed.
A mirthless laugh drifted through the gap. “Of course I have. But there’s no way out. The door is too strong. You’ll learn that soon enough.”
Charlotte swallowed hard. “Do you know who brought us here?”
“No. They come only once a day—just long enough to shove food through that slit at the bottom. They never speak.”
Her words filled Charlotte with cold dread. “How did you end up here?”
“I don’t know,” the woman revealed. “Someone struck me from behind. When I woke, I was already in this cell.”
“And you’ve been alone since then?”
“Not entirely. When I first arrived, there was someone in your cell. A young woman. She… she screamed for days until they took her away.” The woman hesitated. “She never came back.”
Charlotte’s blood ran cold. She sank back onto the stone floor, her legs trembling, fear threatening to break her composure.
After a moment, the voice softened. “I’m Lydia, by the way.”
Charlotte met her eyes through the gap, clinging to the faintest spark of connection. “I’m Charlotte.”
For the first time, the other woman almost smiled. “It is nice to meet you.”
“What do we do now?” Charlotte’s voice trembled despite her effort to sound calm.
On the other side of the wall, Lydia was silent for so long that Charlotte wondered if she had fallen asleep—or worse. Then came a weary sigh. “I don’t know. I suppose I am waiting for the inevitable.”
Charlotte frowned. “The inevitable?”
“Death,” Lydia said flatly, the word heavy and matter-of-fact, as though it were a foregone conclusion.
The sound of it hit Charlotte like a physical blow. “No,” she stated, her voice rising with sudden defiance. She pushed herself to her feet, heart hammering. “I refuse to give up. There must be a way out of here. There has to be.”
Her gaze darted to the barred window high above her reach. If she stood on something—if she could climb up—but there was nothing. No furniture, no tools, nothing at all but the cold floor beneath her and a small, wooden bucket in the corner that reeked of decay. The smell of it alone made her gag.
“I wish you luck,” Lydia murmured. Her tone was not cruel, merely tired—tired in the way of someone who had long since stopped believing in luck.
Charlotte pressed her hand against the wall, the rough stone scraping her skin as she began to pace the narrow length of the cell.
Her thoughts raced, desperate for a plan.
She scanned every crack, every crevice, looking for something—anything—that could serve as a weapon, a tool, a key.
But there was nothing. Just cold, unyielding confinement.
“I can’t give up,” she whispered fiercely, more to herself than to Lydia. “I won’t.”
Lydia’s reply came softly, yet with the weight of bitter truth. “I was like you once. Full of determination. But this place has a way of wearing you down. No one is coming to save you.”
Charlotte’s head lifted sharply. “You don’t know my brother. He will come for me. Alistair served in the Army and he will move heaven and earth to find me.”
“Be careful,” Lydia said after a pause. “Hope is a terrible thing to have in here. It keeps you alive just long enough to break you.”
Charlotte turned towards the faint light spilling from the grimy window. The day was already fading—she could tell by the dimming gray that crept along the wall. “Do you know how long I’ve been here?” she asked.
“A few hours, perhaps,” Lydia replied. “They brought you in not long ago. I heard the door open.”
Before Charlotte could answer, a sudden bang reverberated through the cell door. She jumped, stumbling back.
“Stop your yapping!” a deep voice barked, followed by the harsh scrape of metal. Through the lower slit, a coarse piece of bread was shoved onto the floor. It tumbled across the dirt and came to rest near her slippered feet.
Charlotte stared at it, her stomach clenching with hunger. The sight of food should have been welcome, but the thought of eating something that had touched this filthy ground made her throat close.
“I know it isn’t much,” Lydia said. “But it’s all we get. Once a day.”
Charlotte crouched, eyeing the small hunk of bread. It was stale, gray at the edges, speckled with dirt. She hesitated, torn between pride and survival.
“How are we expected to live on this?” she asked.
Lydia didn’t respond. The silence on the other side of the wall spoke louder than any words could.
Charlotte sank back against the wall, the piece of bread lying untouched. Her heart pounded in her chest, the fear threatening to overwhelm her. But she forced herself to draw in a breath. No. She wouldn’t give in—not to fear, not to despair, and certainly not to death.
Tears blurred Charlotte’s vision, and she made no attempt to stop them from falling down her cheeks. What was the use in pretending to be strong when there was no one left to see it?
Her thoughts turned to Luca. The very memory of his smile—half-mischievous, half-tender—tightened her chest until she could scarcely breathe.
She could almost hear his voice teasing her and see the spark in his eyes when she dared to challenge him.
The ache of missing him was almost worse than the fear of dying in this dreadful place.
She pressed a trembling hand against her heart.
How foolish she had been—to deny what she felt for so long, to hide behind her pride and her fear.
She had pushed him away with sharp words and stubborn silence, believing that would protect her heart.
But she saw the truth now, with cruel clarity.
Loving him had been as natural, as inescapable, as breathing itself.
A quiet sob escaped her. “Luca,” she whispered. “Please… find me.”
But even as she spoke his name, a shiver ran through her. What if he never knew? What if she had waited too long to tell him? What if the last words she had spoken to him were barbed and careless, and he never learned how completely she had given him her heart?
Her tears came harder, her body shaking with the force of them. She tilted her head back against the cold stone wall and closed her eyes, clutching that single, desperate hope to her chest.
She loved him. She knew that now. He wasn’t just someone she wanted to be with, but he was the one she never wanted to be without.
But was it too late?