Chapter 2 #3
I look over the edge, my stomach doing a slow roll.
Below us, the Midnight Menagerie looks like a fever dream draped in fog.
The gas lamps are just smudges of sickly yellow light piercing through the grey mist, and the carnival layout looks like a sprawling, gothic circuit board of shadows.
The tents are dark peaks, the paths are winding veins of cobblestone, and beyond the perimeter, I can smell the salt and brine of the North Sea, somewhere out there in the blackness of Whitby.
It’s hauntingly quiet from up here, like we’ve ascended to a place where the living aren't allowed.
As we reach the apex, the carousel comes to a smooth, clicking halt. Behind us, as if summoned by the movement, a spiral staircase of wrought iron and obsidian stone appears, winding upward into the dark.
Rhys doesn't say a word. He just helps me off the horse, his hand firm on my waist, and leads me up the stairs. My heart is hammering against my ribs, not from fear this time, but from the sheer, suffocating intensity of him.
He leads me through a heavy, ornate gate. Above the arch, etched in weathered stone, are the words: The Victorian Mourning Gardens.
I stop dead. "You've got to be fucking kidding me," I whisper.
It’s a moonlit sanctuary of grief and beauty.
This isn't a place for picnics and laughter; it's a garden designed for the broken.
White marble angels, stained grey and green by decades of rain and age, stand guard over the paths.
There are statues of veiled women, their stone faces frozen in eternal sorrow, and empty iron benches where people once sat to mourn the dead in silence.
The flora is just as dark. Moon gates covered in thick, choking ivy lead to clusters of white lilies, foxgloves, and hellebores—flowers of poison and funerals. And then there are the dahlias, a red so deep they look black under the moonlight.
I walk through the garden, my dress brushing against the damp grass, feeling a strange, heavy peace.
It’s the first time in my life that the atmosphere matches the wreckage inside my chest. We stop under a massive weeping willow, its long, sweeping branches hanging down like a curtain of living lace, shielding us from the rest of the world.
The leaves shiver in the breeze, sounding like a thousand whispered secrets.
I turn to him, frowning. "Why the fuck have you never brought me here before, Rhys?"
He looks at me, his eyes dark and predatory, yet softened by something that almost looks like tenderness.
"I was working on your phobia, Ophelia. Your fear of your own reflection had to come first. The beauty of the carnival—and this place—would have been lost if you were still fighting the mirror. "
I look away, my throat tightening. "I don't know if my mind is actually healed, Rhys. Not after... after seeing them. My sisters. My mother. Knowing I have her exact fucking face... it's like looking at a ghost every time I see myself."
Before I can spiral, he reaches out and cups my face in his large hands, forcing me to look up. His thumbs brush over my cheekbones. "You are looking me in the eye right now, Ophelia. Something you would have never done before. You aren't looking at a reflection; you're looking at me."
He lets go and reaches into the inner pocket of his coat, pulling out a small, black velvet box. My breath hitches. For a split second, I think ring, but Rhys isn't a 'diamond and a chapel' kind of man.
He snaps the box open. Inside, resting on a bed of silk, is a black halo.
It’s not some saintly, golden circle. It’s gothic, elegant, and menacing. Crafted from a dark, shimmering metal, it features a delicate skull entwined with black roses, mirroring the necklace he gave me. It’s a piece of art and a piece of madness all in one.
He lifts it out and gently settles it atop my head, his fingers lingering against my hair.
"You were never meant to wear white," he murmurs, his voice a low, possessive rumble.
I feel a small, genuine smile tug at my lips. “You’re a complete lunatic, you know that?”
"And you're my favorite kind of broken," he replies, brushing his thumb across my cheek.
I reach up, touching the cool metal of the ornament. "What the fuck is this, exactly? A crown for the Queen of the Damned?"
He chuckles, that dark sound that always makes my skin prickle. "It's a symbol, Ophelia. A mark of who you belong to. A ring is a promise, but this... this is a bond. It's a black halo.”
My heart skips a beat.
"Whenever you're afraid... hold it. Whenever you are in trouble. Wherever you need me, wherever you are, hold it in your hands, close your eyes, think of me. I'll find you."
I look at him, a playful spark hitting me despite the gloom. "I've always wanted a guardian angel," I tease.
Rhys's expression doesn't change, but his eyes darken. "I'm no angel, love."
"Then what are you?" I whisper, leaning into him. "The devil?"
His grip on my waist tightens, pulling me flush against him. "The devil negotiates, Ophelia. I don't."
I shiver, the heat of him radiating through my gown. "And how does this thing even work? Is it some kind of magic?"
"In a way," he says, his voice turning serious, almost commanding.
"Hold it in both hands."
I laugh. "And then?"
"Think of me."
"That's it?"
"That's all."
"How will you know?"
He smiles. "I always know.”
"All you have to do is hold it in your hands and think of me. Wherever you are, in whatever hell you find yourself in, I will find you. I will always find you." He leans in, his lips grazing my ear. "So, swear to me. Swear you'll never take it off."
"I swear," I breathe, the word feeling like a contract signed in blood.
We spend the rest of the hour exploring the garden, walking hand-in-hand through the silence. We pass the veiled statues and the weeping willows, the only sound being the distant, ghostly echo of the carnival below.
The halo feels strange on my head—not heavy, but present. It feels like a weight and a shield all at once. Every time I catch a glimpse of my shadow on the marble paths, I see the silhouette of the halo, and for the first time, I don't feel the urge to run. I feel claimed. I feel seen.
As we walk, I realize that in this garden of mourning, I'm not grieving for the people I lost. I'm just existing in the orbit of the man who destroyed my world only to rebuild it in his own twisted image. And God help me, I fucking love it.