The sob caught in her throat, a harsh, unexpected sound. Hot tears spilled, blurring Silas's face, blurring the whole humid greenhouse into a shimmering haze. She felt a profound weariness, a deep ache in her bones that went beyond the fever.
Silas's touch lingered on her cheek, light as a moth's wing. His thumb brushed just beneath her eye, catching a tear. "Julia," he murmured, his voice gentle, laced with concern. "What is it? Why are you crying?"
She shook her head, unable to speak, the tears coming faster now. It was everything. The suffocating house, Alistair's chilling stares, Agnes's cold judgments, Elsie's frightened eyes, Marian's ghost. The weight of it all pressed down, too much to carry alone.
He stepped closer, his hand dropping from her face to her shoulder, a comforting, solid pressure. "Hey. Tell me," he urged, his voice soft, coaxing. "What's wrong? You don't have to carry it all by yourself."
"It's… it's everything," she choked out, finally. "This place. Alistair. Marian. It's just so much. I feel like I'm… losing my mind sometimes." The last words were a whisper, a deep fear she rarely admitted.
He squeezed her shoulder, his gaze unwavering, full of a quiet understanding that surprised her. "You're not losing your mind, Julia. You're just… seeing things clearly. This house, it's a tangled mess. And Alistair… he makes it worse."
He gently steered her towards the low bench, settling her beside him. He didn't release her shoulder, his warmth seeping through her shawl. "You don't have to face any of this alone. I'm here. I'll stay. We'll figure it out." His voice held a quiet strength, a promise that felt fiercely real.
She looked at him then, truly looked. His amber eyes were deep, unwavering, a safe harbor in the storm. For the first time since coming to Blackwood Hall, she felt a flicker of genuine hope.
"Come on," he said, standing, offering his hand. "Let's get out of this stuffy greenhouse. A walk might help clear your head. We can talk."
Julia took his hand, her fingers small in his larger, calloused ones. His grip was firm, reassuring. They stepped out of the warm, humid greenhouse into the cool, crisp garden air.
They walked slowly, their footsteps crunching on the fallen leaves. The frost-kissed beauty of the neglected garden offered a strange peace. Julia found herself telling him things she hadn't dared to voice to anyone else. The suffocating feeling, the pressure, the chilling sense of unseen eyes.
"It's like the house itself is watching," she confessed, her voice low. "Judging."
Silas nodded, his gaze distant, as if seeing beyond the overgrown hedges. "It is. This place… it holds onto things. People. Secrets."
They rounded a bend in the path, stumbling upon something half-hidden by a thicket of briars: a tall, wrought-iron gate, rusted and locked, overgrown with thorny vines. It looked like a portal to another, forgotten world.
Julia stopped, her eyes fixed on it. "Marian… she used to write," she murmured, a memory surfacing. "A diary. She kept everything in it. Every thought, every feeling. She said it was her escape."
Silas turned to her, his expression sharpening. "A diary? Where would she keep it?"
Julia shrugged, a frustrated sigh escaping her lips. "I don't know. Alistair wouldn't let her keep anything private. He'd call it 'morbid.' She must have hidden it somewhere. Somewhere he'd never think to look." A spark of an idea ignited within her. "I've looked in her old rooms, but… it's like he erased her."
Silas's jaw tightened. He looked at the gate, then back at her. "Then we'll find it. Together." His voice was low, a firm promise. "If it's here, we'll unearth it."
They found a broken sundial, its gnomon missing, half-swallowed by weeds. They sat on its cold stone base, the silence of the garden enveloping them. The air was getting colder, making Julia shiver despite her shawl.
"You know," Julia began, her voice barely a whisper, the intimacy of the moment urging her to confess. "Alistair… he once had Marian's portrait removed from the grand hall. While she was still alive. He said it disturbed the 'house's energy.'" She shivered again, not just from the cold. "But I think it was because he couldn't stand her looking at him. Or maybe… looking at anyone else."
Silas listened, his amber eyes fixed on hers. "He's always been like that. Obsessive. Possessive." His voice was tight, a vein throbbing faintly in his neck. "Marian… she told me things, weeks before… before she died."
Julia leaned forward, suddenly desperate for details. "What things?"
He sighed, a heavy sound. "She talked about cold hands in the night. Dreams of being buried alive." He paused, his gaze distant, haunted. "She said she felt trapped. Like the house was closing in on her. Like someone was watching her all the time."
A chill, deeper than the morning cold, seeped into Julia's bones. "Cold hands in the night?"
Silas nodded, his eyes meeting hers, full of shared dread. "She swore she felt them. On her face, her arms. When she woke up, no one was there." He looked around the desolate garden, as if the very air held Marian's whispers. "She was terrified."
The cold was really settling in now, making Julia's teeth chatter. A shiver ran through her body. Silas noticed.
"You're freezing," he said, his voice rough with concern. Without a word, he shrugged off his thick, threadbare coat. It smelled faintly of tobacco and something earthy, comforting.
He draped it carefully around her shoulders. As she pulled the warm wool tighter, his hand accidentally brushed hers. Their fingers met, skin against skin.
A jolt. Warm and dangerous. It wasn't just the cold, or the fear, or the confession. It was something new, unfamiliar, and intensely unsettling.
They froze. The world narrowed to just that touch. Her breath hitched. His eyes, molten honey, held hers. The air crackled.
But Julia pulled away first. Not out of disgust, but a sudden, overwhelming confusion. A deep, unsettling fear of what that warmth, that pull, truly meant. She'd never felt anything like it. Not in her quiet, bookish life.
"I… I should go," she whispered, her voice rough. She clutched his coat tighter, needing its warmth, needing the barrier between them. She stood up abruptly.
Silas watched her, his eyes full of understanding, and a flicker of pain. He didn't try to stop her. He knew. He always knew too much.
She turned and hurried back towards the house, leaving him alone in the quiet, decaying garden. The greenhouse, the sundial, Silas… they all seemed to fade behind her, leaving her with the unsettling weight of newly revealed truths and a terrifying, unfamiliar pull in her chest.
---
Inside the mansion, a window on the second floor overlooked the very spot where Julia and Silas had sat. Alistair stood there, a grim silhouette, his hands clenched into white-knuckled fists.
Agnes, of course, had informed him. Her dry, precise voice echoing in his mind: "Miss Harrow has ventured into the neglected gardens, my lord. And Mr. Corwin… he appeared moments later."
He had seen it all. Julia, looking pale and fragile, then that damned poet, touching her, soothing her. The easy intimacy of their conversation. The way she had leaned into him.
His fury was quiet. A deep, seething heat that simmered just beneath his skin. It wasn't loud, explosive. It was worse. It was cold.
He held a letter in his hand, crumpled and damp. Marian's handwriting, elegant and delicate. My dearest Alistair, I feel so cold tonight. So alone. The ink was smeared, not just by age, but by something else. He squeezed the paper, tighter and tighter.
The glass in his hand, a delicate brandy snifter, groaned. Then, with a sharp crack, it shattered. Shards of crystal dug into his palm. A thin line of blood welled up. He barely noticed.
Agnes Thorne hurried in, drawn by the sound. Her face, usually so composed, showed a flicker of alarm. "My lord! Your hand!" She moved towards him, reaching for a handkerchief. "That girl! Miss Harrow! Always causing trouble, always-"
"Silence!" Alistair's voice was low, cutting, a dangerous hiss. "I warned you, Agnes. About Miss Harrow. I will not warn you again."
Agnes flinched, pulling back her hand, her face paling further.
Alistair turned, his blue eyes, usually so charming, now burning with a frigid rage. "Finch!" he bellowed, his voice echoing through the silent study.
The butler appeared almost instantly, a silent shadow at the door. "My lord?"
Alistair looked at him, his gaze like ice. "Find out everything about Corwin, Finch. Everything. Strip him down, soul and bone, and report what you see."