Unseen

1. The Better Choice

THE BETTER CHOICE

D eath was so much quieter than I had expected.

I was not sure what had made me think it would be loud. The only dead bodies I had ever seen were laid out in coffins, silently sleeping and smelling violently of Lily of the Valley. I had never been a witness to anyone actually dying.

Perhaps it was less about expectation, and more about a secret desire. I wanted a loud death. Pleading and crying, begging me for mercy.

The same pleas I had uttered in those first months of marriage, every time my geriatric husband had leered over me.

Every time those disgusting, twisted fingers had forced themselves into the most intimate parts of my body, bemoaning how I was never “ready” for him.

Every time that hacking cough burst through his lungs, brought on by any manner of exertion, launching spittle across my face.

Yes, that was it. As I held the silk pillow down over my pathetic husband’s face, I was not ashamed to admit that I wanted him to suffer, as I had suffered.

But I had endured. I had found a way through all those nights.

I had stopped begging and pleading, forging ahead, all those nights leading to this one.

The night where he was now succumbing.

Slowly, quietly, nothing but a muffled whimper or a rattly groan betraying the fact that his life was now ebbing away, and at my hand no less.

His pretty little bride.

I recoiled as one of his hands came to rest against my cheek, and I jerked my head away from the touch. He whined, his chest shuddering beneath me.

“Just go to sleep, old man,” I murmured, pressing harder as his heartbeat slowed. “Go to sleep, and this will all be over.”

I was doing him a service, really. He was so very old.

That hacking cough was surely a sign that he was unwell, and not long for this world.

When we had first been married, he would have overpowered me had I attempted this.

But his slaps across my face every month when I bled had weakened over the years, until he could barely lift his hand.

The crags in his face deepened, the skin blanching til the purple network of veins beneath his skin resembled a worn map.

He was so old now, old and weak and feeble.

If anything, these last years of his life had been the happiest, surely. What kind of man wouldn’t be thrilled to spend every night bedding a woman young enough to be his granddaughter? Showing her off to everyone like a trophy, like a prize he had snatched up for himself.

Bile rose in my throat.

Men were revolting. I hated them, all of them. My father, my uncles, and my decrepit old husband. All of them had used me. All of them had seen me as nothing more than a pawn in their twisted plans for power and wealth.

None of them had reckoned with prim and proper little Evie taking that power from them .

I hiccuped out a laugh, pressing my face to the pillow to smother the sound. Even the night was quiet, the sky clear, the moon shining through the window to illuminate the floor in cool blue light. Such a peaceful end. Much better than Acton Caine deserved.

His fingers twitched once, twice, then went still. I kept the pillow pressed to his face for another minute, making sure that all air had been stolen from his lungs.

There was no more movement. No sound. No breath.

Acton was dead.

I collapsed, gulping down air and blinking away unexpected tears of relief. It was finally over. I was finally free.

“It was either him, or me.” I am not sure whom I was addressing in the empty room. The quiet night? God, perhaps? It didn’t matter. “I’m young. I can still do good. I’m the better choice.”

I slowly withdrew the pillow from his face, bracing myself. I expected to feel revulsion, maybe even a flash of horror at what I had done. But even that did not come as expected.

Indeed, Acton looked like an old man who had simply gone to sleep. His eyes were slightly open, a slit of bloodshot white still visible. His mouth hung slack, useless, no breath passing his lips. Just an old fool whose time had come.

I dared not touch him any further, simply drew up the covers, as if he had simply been sleeping, then rose from the bed. I crossed the room to gaze up at the night sky, to my only witness, the moon, which glowed brightly overhead.

“You understand, do you not?” I put a hand against the cold window pane. “You could not blame me for this, could you?”

The moon did not reply.

I closed my eyes, and took a deep breath, feeling, for the first time in three years, that perhaps I was a person after all. Not a wife, a mere vessel for Acton Caine’s heirs. I would soon find my way back to myself, now that I was free, unshackled from this cursed family.

I cast one last glance over my shoulder at Acton’s feeble form, inert in the bed, before turning on my heel and creeping across the floor to the door of his bedroom.

My feet found all the places in the wooden floor that did not creak, a path I had memorised, perhaps planning this night without even realising it, all these months.

I paused at the door, waiting for any sound, the distant footsteps of a passing servant.

But it was late, and everyone was asleep. The house remained silent.

The latch of the door clicked so loudly that my heart beat faster for a moment, humming in my throat. But still there was no movement in the house, and I ventured into the long, dark hallway, pulling the door closed behind me.

The thick Persian rug underfoot muffled the sound of my bare feet as I crept back to my room.

Cold bit at my legs, a draft wafting through the cracks of this old house.

I passed two doorways, almost back to my own room, when the hairs on the back of my neck stood up, and my heartbeat roared in my ears.

I’d heard a breath.

Ghostly, and distant. But I had heard it. I was sure.

Someone was watching me from the end of the hallway.

I froze in place for what felt like a year.

My feet went numb, from cold and panic, while sweat beaded on my upper lip.

A million excuses ran through my head, ready to explain what I was doing up and about on this cold Autumn night.

Any coy insistence that it had been nothing but a matrimonial urge for coupling would swiftly be met with Acton’s valet being woken to clean away the evidence, leading to the discovery of his lifeless body .

And I wasn’t sure how in Heaven’s name I was going to explain that .

The seconds slipped by, and no more ghostly breaths sounded in the darkness.

Slowly, ever so slowly, I dared to turn around, staring and staring into the abyss of night.

My eyes played tricks on me, and the shadows seemed to pool and dance, forming the silhouette of a person.

With my heart in my throat, my strained eyes dared a blink, and the shadows fell.

No one was there. I was alone, no one but the judging glares of Acton’s ancestors regarding me from the walls.

My breath stuttered out of my lungs, and I hurried on tiptoe back to my room. All was dark, and my bed was as I had left it. I flopped down in the linens, my heart still pounding in my chest.

But it was over. It was finally over.

Tomorrow would bring with it a new dawn, a new life.

I would, of course, play my role as the grieving widow perfectly.

I had already prepared the letter to Acton’s son and only child, Azriel, and had delighted far too much in the task.

While tomorrow I would insist that I had to tell Azriel myself, out of nothing but love for my stepson, no one would know that I wrung nothing but pleasure from writing out those lines.

I hated Azriel almost as much as I hated Acton.

But amidst stoic tears, I would task them with finding my rogue of a stepson, and have the letter hand delivered to him. My final act as his stepmother.

Glorious.

I was finally free of this cursed family.

I would take my widow’s dowry, and be free of them all, living out my life in peace somewhere in the countryside.

The weight of the past three years washed off me as I fell into a sound and dreamless sleep, far too peaceful for a woman who had just murdered her husband.

But I was finally free. The rest, it did not matter.

Grief is, as opposed to death, a noisy business indeed.

The louder one’s mourning, the less anyone would dare question just how much you hated the departed.

And so it was on that morning, the first morning of my new life.

I was awoken by the sound of hurried footsteps, sobs and calls for “Fetch the doctor!”, which quickly turned into, “Fetch the priest!”

Oh yes, the servants were doing a marvelous job convincing the entire neighbourhood that a veritable saint had passed through the gates of heaven.

I stretched and yawned, waiting for my maid to come rushing in to wake me.

The next act was about to begin, and I was determined to play my part as well as I had played the dutiful, doting wife.

I rolled onto my side, feigning sleep, counting down the seconds until Mary came rushing in.

Which she did, sniffling and pausing by my bedside.

She took a deep breath, then a warm hand touched my shoulder.

“Madam. Madam, you must wake up.”

I frowned, blinking at her slowly, and rubbing my eyes. “Mary? Is it morning already?”

“Madam, please. You must wake up now.”

I blinked and widened my eyes, looking up at her. “Mary? Whatever is the matter?”

She didn’t respond, shaking her head and biting her lips together.

I sat up, grasping her hand. “Mary? God, what has happened?”

“I’m so sorry, madam,” she whimpered, tears rolling down her round cheeks .