Chapter 9 Penelope
PENELOPE
“You seem… unchanged,” Penelope said softly, though her words came out as more a murmur than a statement, her eyes fixed on the cobblestones street beneath her feet.
Henry had offered to take her on a walk. How long had it been since she had left the garden without her father acting as her ward?
Henry glanced at her, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “And you,” he replied, voice low and measured, “appear much the same as I remember… though perhaps quieter. More deliberate in your words.”
Penelope flushed, lacing her hands together. “Deliberate, am I? I suppose one must be, when walking through a town where every eye seems to weigh upon one. Especially when a lady is unwed. You have been gone long, but the town remains much the same. I fear it might bore you.”
“Bore me?” he asked, catching her gaze before looking back at the thoroughfare before them. “How could any claim boredom in your presence.”
“You needn’t claim such interest, Henry. I have every intention of agreeing to our union.”
“And what if my interest is not false? Do I need your leave to express it?”
She looked up at him then, startled by the intimacy of his admission, but the words held nothing improper, only warmth and familiarity. She found herself suddenly aware of the small space between them on the narrow street, the heavy eyes of passerby weighing what them being together meant.
“Tell me,” he continued, “what have you found yourself doing in the time I was away?”
“The piano, of course. These days it seems to be my only interlude from my day-to-days.”
Henry hummed in agreement. “Yes, your father speaks of your troubles with monsters. Says they have become more frequent.”
“Yes—my father, Mayor Adams, has been very cautious of our women. He takes pride in his duty to our people.”
“One can never be too careful when monsters are involved,” Henry said.
His tone was measured, scholarly, though there was a curl of disdain beneath it.
“Vile things. Some say they are curses sent by God, warnings of what a man might become if he were truly wicked, or if he strayed too far from His grace.”
“Wicked?” she echoed.
“It is said so,” he murmured, careful, almost hesitant, as if weighing each syllable.
“Yet some—rare few—have claimed that even the wicked act with an understanding of choice. But those who are educated know better. Monsters do not grasp such complexities as choice. They are creatures of hunger, nothing more.”
She swallowed hard, the thought twisting in her mind.
Choice. Elias had chosen nothing but restraint—the same restraint that had spared her life, spared her virtue.
He had not claimed her, not broken her, though she had felt the weight of his hunger.
He had shown her more control, more reverence, than any man she had ever known.
And yet, her pulse betrayed her, thundering with the memory of him—his fangs, his hands, the breathless danger of wanting.
He even played the piano and spoke more eloquently than most men she knew.
“Do you… believe that monsters might ever be… good?” she asked, barely daring to speak.
For a fleeting instant, Henry’s gaze softened, amusement flickering like candlelight. But then his lips curled into a laugh—sharp, mocking, a sound without mirth. “If such things were ever called good,” he said, shaking his head, “then I dread to think what true monsters are.”
Penelope drew back at the harshness in his tone, though she knew the edge was meant in jest, a test perhaps of her composure. She pressed her lips together, swallowing whatever bite she had. “And if… if one wished to see the good?”
Henry’s smile softened again, the jest fading into something gentler, though still wary.
“One may wish all they like,” he said quietly, “but wishing does not change what walks before you. A good monster is a dead monster. And if they were truly good, they would do the world a favor and disappear. By whatever means that would require.”
Her breath caught. He could not mean that—could he? That they should kill themselves? The hatred was not unfamiliar, her father had said as much, her townsfolk believed it too. But to hear it spoken so plainly, so easily, made her stomach knot.
“I do not wish to frighten you,” he said, low and careful, “but one cannot afford sentiment when the danger is real. Monsters do not negotiate—they take. They do not ask—they consume. You have seen this yourself, Miss Adams. Look at what your town has become. For all the coin my parents pour into your father’s campaigns, your infestation only worsens.
If these things are not eradicated, they will begin to imagine themselves equal.
What then? Shall we grant them rights? Freedom from persecution?
” His lip curled. “It would be war. And it takes only a few stepping from the shadows before the rest follow.”
Penelope’s fingers clenched at her sides.
She could feel the pulse in her temples, the sharpness of unease threading through her chest. Henry’s words, though measured, cut like a blade honed on fear and cruelty.
The world he painted was rigid, merciless, governed by rules that left no room for the nuance she had glimpsed in Elias.
“I—I understand,” she said finally, voice trembling, though she pressed her lips together to keep it steady. “But… is it not possible that one may act with restraint? With choice.” She wanted to swallow the words as soon as they had come out.
Still, Elias had acted with restrain, had he not?
“What you call restraint,” Henry said, pausing as if to savor the correction, “is merely patience before the inevitable. I have seen it. I have seen the bodies of women who trusted in a monster’s restraint.
One act of courtesy does not change a nature born in blood.
” His mouth twisted, voice sharpening with something darker.
“Vampires especially—filth in human skin. They do not love, they do not reason. They prey, because that is all they are. I have slit their throats myself, watched the light die in their eyes, and I promise you—there was nothing human left in them to save.”
“You’ve killed vampires?” Penelope asked, breath catching. “But were they not once human? Surely, they cannot all be bad?”
“Of course they were once human,” Henry allowed, though the words carried no mercy.
“But that person dies the moment they are turned. Vampires are born from death. If a man or woman perishes with vampire blood in their body, they rise again without a heartbeat, without a breath, without ever feeling the warmth of the sun. Tell me, Penny—does that sound human to you?”
Penelope’s breath caught at the earnestness in his voice, though she forced a polite, almost brittle smile in return.
She did not know what to say, could not speak the truth of what she had done, of how the very vampire he wishes to hunt had touched her.
How she had come to know both the danger and the warmth of his hands, his bite that thrilled and terrified her all at once.
“I…” she faltered, squeezing her hands together. “I am afraid such matters are far beyond my knowledge at present.”
“Of course,” Henry said smoothly, as though her submission pleased him. “That is only another reason our union would be prosperous. I have many teachings I might deliver upon you.”
“I am grateful.”
Henry nodded slowly, as if he understood more than she intended to reveal. “I hope that gratitude may one day bloom into something more,” he murmured, soft and earnest.
By the time Penelope had retired from her walk with Henry, the sun was already beginning its downfall.
She let herself collapse onto the bed, the weight of the day pressing against her chest, pressing her eyelids shut as though the very air sought to smother her senses.
Every step with Henry had been measured, every word a careful balancing of civility and propriety, yet still, her skin tingled with the memory of Elias’ touch—gentle, certain, human in ways that made her pulse both ache and recoil.
And he spoke as if he truly saw her. Something even Henry could not offer… yet, they both have blood on their hands. How many vampires had Henry slain?
Turning on her side, she let her eyes wander to her open window—
Penelope froze.
Her pulse hitched. Why was the window open? Surely she had latched it after Elias had left. Yet, as she bolted to the sill, her breath catching in her throat, she saw it.
Delicately, impossibly, it rested there: a letter, folded with care, and beside it, a single black rose.
On the letter, in sprawling black ink, a note.
To my Lamb, this is me keeping my end of our deal.
Penelope scoffed, the sound caught somewhere between exasperation and amusement.
Could he not have simply handed it to her?
Honestly, she was beginning to suspect he had a penchant for burglary, the way he so oft found his way into her quarters, as though the locks themselves were no more than mere suggestions.
Her fingers hovered over the envelope, heart thrumming, caught between the urge to rip it open and trepidation for what they might say.
Releasing a steadying breath, Penelope tore the envelope, pulling the parchment from within.
Dear Penny,
The letter started. Hardly anyone called her Penny, save for Eleanor herself and of course her father on occasion.
I hope you are well. It has been so very long since we have spoken, and I fear you remain a tangle of nerves and propriety, bound ever so tightly by your own careful measures. I write now in hopes—however slight—of easing those burdens, if only for a moment.
I also write with a quiet worry—that perhaps my previous letters have not reached you. I had hoped to hear from you by now. Still, Elias tells me you have met. I trust he did not frighten you too gravely. He is… difficult at times, I know. But he is good, in his own way.
Do you still play the piano?
I think often of you, and of the town, and of the way it must watch, waiting for some misstep, some hint of scandal.
You must try to ignore it. I can only imagine the horrors they have made of my disappearance.
I wish I could have told you myself but as you can imagine, the town is not safe for me. Not yet, anyways.
I am married now, can you believe it? Osiris—he is gentle, steadfast, kind beyond measure, and worries even more than you. We have a small farm, and we grow vegetables for the local children. You would delight in it here. The enclave is quiet, mostly. Only a few remain tethered to the old ways.
And still, I find myself missing you. Your worried ramblings, the way you fussed over every imagined calamity—sometimes, in the quiet of the evening, I almost hear your voice again, sharp with propriety, soft with care.
I hope to hear from you soon, I will await your response.
Give Elias your letters, he will know where to take them.
With love,
Eleanor.
Dark spots blotched the parchment where her tears had fallen, running down her cheeks as she read the letter again. Elias was not spinning falsehoods. Eleanor truly was safe, and in that truth, a bitter relief coiled in her chest.
Penelope held the letter to her chest.
She was not alone.