Elsie stood frozen, her eyes wide, locked on Alistair's chilling stare. She swallowed hard, her heart pounding like a trapped bird. Betray Julia? The thought was a sharp, physical pain. Or face Alistair's anger? The choice was terrible, a cliff she was forced to stand on.
Her small hand trembled, clenching into a tight fist at her side. She remembered Miss Harrow's kindness, the warmth in her eyes. But then she remembered Lord Blackwood's cold fury, how he'd looked at Mr. Corwin. She remembered what Miss Thorne had hinted at. His power was everything here. Her own place, her safety, it all depended on this moment.
"Yes, my lord," she whispered, the words barely a breath, a faint, scared squeak. "I… I get it. I'll do what you ask." The lie felt like ash on her tongue, heavy and awful.
Alistair watched her, a slow, scary smile forming on his lips. It wasn't a real smile; his eyes stayed cold, thinking. "Good." He turned back to the fire, its flames dancing, reflecting in his sharp blue eyes, like he'd won. "Now, go. And don't forget your job, Elsie. To Miss Harrow. And to me."
Elsie curtsied quickly, a stiff, unsure movement, then hurried out of the room, her heart beating like crazy. The heavy door clicked shut behind her, leaving Alistair alone in the quiet. The flickering firelight made long, winning shadows that danced on the rich tapestries.
Alistair poured more brandy, the crystal making a soft sound. He swirled the amber liquid, the smell filling the air. He wasn't drunk, no. Just… satisfied. For now. The anger had gone down, replaced by a cold, firm calm. He'd planted the seed. Now, he'd just wait for it to grow.
Julia's defiance. That surprised him. A spark he hadn't really expected. But a challenge he liked. She had spirit, fire. Marian had it once, before this house, before Corwin. Julia's spirit, though, was wild, and that made her dangerous. And appealing.
He lifted the glass to his lips, watching the fire. Corwin. That little rat. He thought he could sneak back into his life, poison his home, take what was *his*. Alistair's hand tightened on the glass. He'd make sure Corwin wished he'd never stepped foot in Blackwood Hall again. He'd make sure Julia saw him for the slimy worm he was.
Elsie. A small, unimportant creature. Easily scared, easily swayed by promises of safety. She'd be his eyes, his ears. He needed to know every whisper, every secret shared. He needed to control the story. For Julia's sake, of course. To save her from herself, from the bad path Marian took. He was her protector. Her guardian. And she'd see that. She *would*.
He drained the glass, the warmth spreading through him, a cold satisfaction settling deep inside him. The game had truly begun. And Alistair always played to win.
---
The next morning, Julia woke with a restless energy. A low fever simmered beneath her skin, making her feel too warm, too still. Her room, usually a sanctuary, felt like a cage. The silence was suffocating, pressing in on her.
She couldn't bear it. She needed to move, to breathe air that wasn't heavy with the house's secrets.
A soft knock at her door. Elsie.
"Come in," Julia called, her voice a little thin.
Elsie entered, carrying a small tray with Julia's breakfast—toast, jam, and a cup of lukewarm tea. Her eyes, still wide and shadowed, darted to Julia on the bed.
"Miss Harrow, you look… feverish," Elsie whispered, setting the tray on the nightstand. "Are you alright?"
Julia pushed herself up, ignoring the slight swim of her head. "I'm restless, Elsie. I can't stay in here another moment." She felt a sudden, fierce need to escape. "I need to go outside."
Elsie's eyes widened further. "Oh, Miss Harrow, I don't think that's a good idea. You're not well. You should rest." Her voice was soft, pleading. "And Lord Blackwood… he might not like it."
Julia shook her head, a stubborn set to her jaw. "I don't care what Lord Blackwood thinks right now. I care about feeling better. And I need fresh air." She met Elsie's nervous gaze. "Please, Elsie. Just help me get ready."
Elsie hesitated, wringing her hands, but Julia's resolve was clear. With a sigh of worried resignation, Elsie helped her bathe quickly. Her small hands were gentle as she helped Julia into a thick, dark green woolen dress, warm enough for the chill outside.
"Lord Blackwood hasn't come down for breakfast yet," Elsie murmured as she handed Julia a thick shawl. "Finch says he's still in his study."
Julia paused, pulling the shawl tight around her shoulders. So, Alistair had likely slept in his study, stewing in his anger. She wondered if it was because of her, because of their clash last night. The thought prickled with a strange mix of guilt and defiance.
"Thank you, Elsie," Julia said, trying to push the thought away. She took a deep breath. "I'm going down." She needed to. The room felt too small.
She walked out into the grand hallway, the heavy shawl a comforting weight against the lingering chill. Her footsteps echoed slightly on the polished floorboards. She made her way towards the back of the house, away from the formal drawing rooms, towards the neglected parts.
As she passed a shadowy alcove, a voice, dry as parchment, stopped her. "Miss Harrow. And where are you off to this morning?"
Agnes Thorne stepped out, her severe figure looming. Her eyes, sharp and judgmental, fixed on Julia.
Julia paused, feeling a surge of annoyance. "Good morning, Miss Thorne. I'm merely going to the gardens. For some air."
Agnes's pale lips thinned. "The gardens? They are quite wild this time of year. And damp. Hardly suitable for a lady of your… delicate constitution." Disapproval radiated from her. "Perhaps the conservatory would be more fitting?"
Julia felt her resolve harden. She was tired of the constant 'suggestions,' the veiled controls. "Thank you, Miss Thorne, but I prefer the fresh air. I'll be quite alright." She offered a polite but firm nod and walked past the housekeeper, leaving Agnes to stand, unmoving, in the shadowed hall.
Julia pushed open a heavy side door, the rusty hinges groaning in protest. She stepped out into the rear gardens, the neglected beauty striking her instantly. Here, Blackwood Hall's grandeur gave way to a wild, melancholic charm.
Frost laced the hedges, turning their dark green into a silvery filigree. Wilted rose bushes, stripped of their summer glory, reached out like skeletal hands, yet even in their decay, there was a ghostly beauty. The air was crisp, biting, but clean. She breathed deeply, letting the cold sting her lungs, chasing away the feverish stuffiness.
She walked slowly along a winding, overgrown path, the crunch of dead leaves under her boots the only sound. The silence was a balm, a welcome change from the constant tension inside the house. She let her mind drift, the complexities of the last few days momentarily fading. This place, wild and forgotten, offered a strange solace.
She spotted it then: the greenhouse, a glass structure nestled behind a tangle of ancient, gnarled trees. Its panes were fogged, almost opaque with condensation and neglect. She rarely came this far into the gardens.
Curiosity tugged at her. She pushed open the creaking wooden door. The air inside was warmer, thick with the scent of damp earth and forgotten flora.
And there he was.
Silas.
He was sitting on a low, overturned crate, a worn sketchbook open on his knee. His dark, unruly hair fell over his brow as he hunched over his work. He was sketching, not plants, but the greenhouse itself—the rusted ironwork, the fractured glass, the vines that snaked through the broken panes, reclaiming the space. He looked absorbed, completely unaware of her presence.
His face, usually so sharp and animated, was softened in concentration. The jagged scar on his cheekbone seemed less fierce, almost a part of the quiet artistry. He was a wolf at rest, for a moment.
She watched him, a strange mix of awkwardness and relief washing over her. She cleared her throat softly.
Silas's head snapped up, his amber eyes, usually so quick, widened in surprise. He hadn't heard her approach. A faint blush touched his high cheekbones, a rare moment of discomposure.
"Julia," he said, his voice a low, rough murmur. He closed his sketchbook, setting it aside. He looked almost sheepish. "What… what are you doing out here?"
"I could ask you the same," Julia replied, her voice a little breathless. The air between them, charged with the tension of last night, felt suddenly thick.
He stood, dusting off his trousers. "I needed to clear my head. This place… it's a good spot to think." He gestured around the overgrown greenhouse. "And to sketch. There's a certain beauty in decay, wouldn't you agree?"
"I suppose," she said, wrapping her shawl tighter. The warmth of the greenhouse, combined with her fever, made her feel a little dizzy.
Silas's eyes, sharp as ever, noticed. He took a step closer, his gaze softening with concern. "You're still not well, are you? You're flushed."
"Just… a little restless," she admitted, suddenly feeling vulnerable.
He hesitated, then took another step, closing the small distance between them. "Julia, about last night," he began, his voice surprisingly quiet, stripped of its usual playful edge. "I… I'm sorry. For causing trouble. For putting you in such a position with Alistair."
Julia shook her head, looking away. "You didn't cause anything, Silas. Alistair… he's always like this. And as for our 'relationship,' as you call it, he's just Marian's widower. Nothing more." The words felt hollow as she said them, a faint tremor in her own voice. The way Alistair acted… it felt like something far deeper, far more tangled than simple family obligation. But she couldn't admit that. Not to Silas. Not to herself.
Silas watched her, his expression unreadable. He reached out, slowly, his fingers hovering for a moment before gently brushing a stray strand of dark hair from her face. His touch was feather-light, almost reverent, a stark contrast to his usual probing confidence. The unexpected tenderness, the simple human contact, after days of emotional turmoil and physical pain, was too much.
A sudden, overwhelming wave of emotion crashed over Julia. Her eyes welled up, blurring the lines of his face. She felt a sob catch in her throat, raw and sudden.
She broke.