Bones of the Porcelain Grave

Chapter 1

I’m on my knees in the attic, staring into that bloody great rusted box, and I don’t remember how I got here.

Don’t remember moving. Don’t remember breathing.

All I know is the smell—sweet, thick, like dying roses left too long in a vase.

It clings to the back of my throat, coats my tongue, makes my eyes water.

I can’t scream. My lungs are locked tight, like someone’s got their fist around them and won’t let go.

Inside the box, three bodies. Two girls, one woman. My mum and my sisters, laid out like dolls someone forgot to put away. I know who they are.

I wish I didn't.

Mum—Marguerite—her skin’s gone grey and tight over her bones, lips pulled back from her teeth in something that might’ve been a smile once.

Her dark hair’s still pinned up, though the pins have rusted and left streaks down her temples.

She’s wearing the white gloves like on that newspaper, the ones with the little Chanel logo still visible on the cuff, though the leather’s cracked and peeling.

Her dress is the one she wore in that photo, navy blue with white piping, though it’s stiff with old blood now, the fabric clinging to her ribs where something’s eaten through.

Rosalind’s next to her, curled on her side like she’s sleeping.

Her dress is the one we ironed together the morning she vanished—pink with little white flowers, the hem stained dark where it’s soaked up whatever’s leaked from her.

Her hair’s still in those stupid plaits she liked, though one’s come undone and the strands are stuck to her cheek with something dark and sticky.

Her shoes are scuffed, one lace missing, the other tied in a bow that’s come loose.

Cordelia’s on the other side, her head resting on Mum’s shoulder like she’s seeking comfort even in death.

Her dress is the same as Rosalind’s, the triplet she always hated wearing, but the blood’s dried darker on hers, almost black.

Her hair’s shorter than I remember, chopped off at the chin, and her mouth is open like she was mid-scream when happened to them happened.

Her shoes are gone, feet bare and grey, toes curled inward like she died cold.

I’m screaming. I know I am. But there’s no sound coming out.

Just this raw, tearing feeling in my chest, like my throat’s been ripped open and nothing’s left but air and panic.

My hands are gripping the edge of the box, fingers digging into the rust, and I can feel it biting into my skin, but I can’t let go.

Can’t move. Can’t do anything but stare at them, at the way Mum’s gloves are still so white against the decay, at the way Rosalind’s plait has come undone, at the way Cordelia’s mouth is frozen in that final, silent scream.

The panic hits like a wave. My vision tunnels, goes black at the edges, and all I can see is them—three bodies, three ghosts, three reasons I should’ve died years ago.

My heart’s hammering so hard I think it might burst, and my lungs are screaming for air but I can’t seem to draw any in.

I’m shaking, whole body trembling, and I can feel the tears on my face but I don’t remember crying.

Don’t remember anything except the smell and the sight and the way my hands won’t let go of this fucking box.

Rhys is there. I don’t know when he came to me, but he’s kneeling beside me, his hands on my wrists, trying to pry my fingers away. “Ophelia,” he’s saying, voice low and urgent. “Ophelia, let go. You’re hurting yourself, love. Let go.”

I can’t. My fingers are locked, knuckles white, and I can feel the blood trickling down my palms where the rust has cut me.

He’s gentle at first, then firmer, working my hands free one by one until I’m bleeding freely, the wounds stinging in the cold attic air.

He wraps something around them—his shirt, maybe—and then he’s lifting me, carrying me out of there like I weigh nothing.

The hallway stretches forever. My bedroom door is open, and I catch a glimpse of the bed we broke hours ago, the headboard split clean down the middle, the crack running right through the wood like a fault line.

Like my mind. Like everything I thought I knew about my family, about my life, about what happened to them.

He doesn’t take me in there. Just keeps walking, carrying me down the stairs and out into the grey October morning.

The sky’s the colour of old bruises, drizzling that fine, persistent rain that soaks through everything.

He sets me in the passenger seat of his car, but I’m already moving before he can close the door, pushing past him and running.

Just running, bare feet slapping against wet pavement, heart pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears.

A car horn blares. Tyres screech. Rhys grabs me, yanks me back just as the bumper kisses my hip, and then I’m in his arms again, struggling against him as he holds me tight.

“Ophelia,” he’s saying, over and over, voice cracking with something that might be fear.

“Ophelia, stop. Stop, my little cracked doll. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

I can’t stop. Can’t think. Can’t do anything but fight against his grip, trying to get away from the smell, from the sight, from the knowledge that’s burning through me like acid.

He doesn’t let go. Just holds me there on the street, sinking down against the wall with me in his lap, rocking me like a child while people stare and whisper and point.

“Ophelia,” he keeps saying, voice soft and desperate. “Ophelia, come back to me. It’s Rhys. It’s your Rhys. You’re safe now, cracked doll. I’ve got you. I’ve always got you.”

His men arrive in a black car that pulls up to the kerb, and he lifts me again, carries me to it without letting go. One of them takes the wheel, and Rhys sits in the back with me on his thighs, arms wrapped around me like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he loosens his grip even a fraction.

I stare at nothing. The world’s gone grey and distant, like I’m watching it through frosted glass.

The smell is still in my nose, sweet and cloying, and I can feel the blood drying on my hands where the box cut me.

Rhys is talking, low and constant, but the words don’t reach me.

Just the sound of his voice, the feel of his arms, the steady beat of his heart against my back.

I don’t know where we’re going. Don’t care. All I know is that the box is behind us, and the bodies are still there, and nothing will ever be the same again.

The world comes back in fragments. Warmth. The scent of expensive sandalwood and something metallic—blood, maybe. Then, the water.

I blink, my eyelashes heavy and clumped, and realize I’m floating.

I’m naked, submerged in a bath that’s almost too hot, the steam curling around me like a shroud.

I don’t remember getting here. I don’t remember the clothes coming off.

I just remember the smell of rotting roses and the sight of Mum’s white gloves.

Rhys is there, kneeling beside the tub. His face is a mask of focused, psychotic devotion. He doesn’t say a word; he just reaches for me. His hands are large, steady, and possessive as he gathers my hair—all that long, black mass that reaches down to my waist—and lifts it away from my neck.

He starts with my scalp. His fingers dig in, massaging the skin with a firm, rhythmic pressure that almost makes me moan despite the hollow void in my chest. It’s a slow, deliberate kneading, working the tension out of my skull, his nails occasionally grazing my skin in a way that sends a shiver straight down my spine.

He’s treating me like something precious, something fragile that he’s just finished breaking.

Then, he pushes me back. I close my eyes as the water rushes over my face, submerging me completely.

For a second, the silence of the water is the only thing that exists.

No screams, no rusted boxes, no dead sisters.

Just the muffled thumping of my own heart.

I feel weightless, drifting in a warm abyss, until he reaches in and hauls me back up to the surface.

I gasp, coughing slightly, my eyes snapping open to find him staring at me with that unhinged, hungry look in his eyes.

"Stay still, my cracked doll," he whispers, his voice a low, rough caress.

He takes a sponge and a rich, creamy soap, and then he begins to wash me.

He doesn’t rush. He’s fucking meticulous.

He starts with my neck, scrubbing away the grime and the salt of my tears, moving down to my shoulders and the curve of my breasts.

He lingers there, his thumb brushing over my nipples, circling them until they peak in the heat of the water.

He washes my stomach, his hand sliding over my ribs, then down to the crease of my hips.

He moves between my legs, his touch clinical yet erotic, cleaning every fold of my pussy with a slow, sweeping motion that makes my thighs tremble.

He doesn't stop until every inch of me is scrubbed clean—my inner thighs, the small of my back, the curve of my ass. He’s erasing the attic from my skin, scrubbing away the memory of the blood and the rust until I’m nothing but his.

When he’s finished, he lifts me out of the water. I’m limp, a fucking rag in his arms. He wraps me in a towel that’s thick and plush, rubbing me dry with a firmness that borders on rough, his hands roaming over my curves as if he’s reclaiming every inch of territory.