Julia stared at Elsie, her mind reeling from the maid's revelation. "He… he sleeps there? In the gazebo? With Marian's portrait?" Her voice was barely a whisper, a strange mix of disbelief and dawning comprehension.
Elsie nodded, her timid eyes earnest. "Yes, Miss Harrow. Often. If you doubt me, you can go and see for yourself." With that, Elsie, her task completed and her secret shared, curtsied quickly and slipped out of the room, leaving Julia alone in the flickering candlelight.
Julia stood rooted to the spot, trying to process Elsie's words. The Lady Garden. She remembered the cold, the oppressive fog, the unsettling silence that swallowed all sound. She remembered the shadowy, twisted hedges and the angel statue. She remembered the cold, damp earth and the chilling sensation of something reaching from the fountain.
To think of Alistair, the formidable Lord of Blackwood Hall, seeking solace in such a desolate place, exposed to the elements, clutching a portrait of his deceased wife… a strange wave of pity washed over Julia. It must be terribly uncomfortable. Yet, a part of her, the logical part, found it deeply unsettling. Was this genuine grief, or something else entirely? A desperate need to see for herself gnawed at her.
She moved silently to her door, peering out into the darkened corridor. The house was quiet, a deep, pervasive silence that was almost unnerving. She hadn't seen Finch since his chilling pronouncement about checking the windows. It was unusual; the butler always seemed to materialize from the shadows.
Julia decided. She would go. She had to.
She crept down the grand staircase, her soft slippers making no sound on the polished wood. The house felt vast and empty around her, every creak and groan amplified in the stillness. She navigated the maze of corridors, her knowledge of Blackwood Hall growing with each secret journey.
Finally, she reached the glass doors that led to the Lady Garden. Pushing them open slowly, she stepped out into the cool night air. The garden was shrouded in a thin, ethereal mist, softening the harsh edges of the hedges and statues. The moonlight, breaking through gaps in the clouds, cast the garden in shades of silver and deep shadow.
Her gaze swept across the familiar landscape, drawn inevitably to the ornate gazebo at the far end. And there he was. Alistair.
He was not asleep. He was sitting on the cold stone bench, his broad shoulders slumped, his dark head bowed. In his hands, clutched almost desperately to his chest, was a framed portrait. The moonlight caught the silver frame, making it gleam faintly.
As Julia drew closer, she saw him clearly. Alistair, the composed, formidable Lord Blackwood, was weeping. Deep, shuddering sobs wracked his powerful frame, tearing from him with a raw, visceral grief that pierced Julia's heart. He held the portrait as if it were the most precious thing in the world, pressing it against his face, his tears falling onto the glass.
Julia felt a profound ache of empathy for him. Despite her suspicions, despite the dark questions that surrounded him, in that moment, he was simply a man broken by loss. Her earlier apprehension melted away, replaced by a deep well of compassion. She moved towards him, slowly, quietly, until she knelt before him, her hand reaching out tentatively to touch his arm.
Alistair flinched, his head snapping up, his piercing blue eyes, red-rimmed and swollen with tears, fixing on her. For a moment, he looked lost, disoriented.
"Alistair," Julia murmured, her voice soft, gentle. "I… I heard you."
He averted his gaze, a flush of shame creeping up his neck. He tried to compose himself, but his shoulders still trembled. "Julia," he choked out, his voice hoarse with emotion. "What are you doing here?"
"I heard you weeping," Julia replied simply. "I couldn't… I couldn't leave you alone." Her hand found his, cool against his skin. "Please, Alistair. You shouldn't be out here like this. It's cold. You'll become ill."
He shook his head, a tormented expression on his face. "It doesn't matter, Julia. Nothing matters anymore. I can't… I can't live without her. I try. Every day, I try. But it's all to no avail. I just want to… to go to her." His grip on the portrait tightened, his knuckles white.
Julia's heart seized. He spoke of wanting to die. She couldn't let that happen. "No, Alistair. You cannot say that. You have so much to live for. This house… your duties… you have people who care about you." She squeezed his hand, trying to convey the depth of her sincerity. "Marian wouldn't want this for you. She wouldn't want you to despair."
He looked at her, his eyes filled with a desperate, pleading sorrow. "What do I have, Julia? What is there left?"
"There is life, Alistair," she insisted, her voice firm, resolute. "There is tomorrow. And there is… there is hope. You can find peace. You can find a way to honor her memory by living. Not by giving up." She met his gaze, pouring all her compassion and strength into her eyes. "Please, Alistair. Live. Live for her. Live for yourself."
His gaze held hers, long and searching. The raw emotion slowly began to recede, replaced by a flicker of something new, something fragile. He slowly lowered the portrait, his hand still trembling. He looked at her hand in his, then back up to her face.
"Live?" he echoed, his voice still thick, but gaining strength. He then turned her hand over, his thumb tracing the delicate lines of her palm. "And if I live… if I live for you, Julia?" His words hung in the air, a silent question.
Then, his fingers closed around hers, and he brought her knuckles to his lips, pressing a soft, lingering kiss against them. His gaze, hot and intense, never left her eyes. It was a gesture of profound tenderness, a sudden, searing intimacy that made Julia's breath hitch.
"Alistair," Julia whispered, pulling her hand away, her voice suddenly tight. "What are you doing?"
Alistair held her gaze, a dark, passionate intensity in his eyes. "This… this is what I have always wanted to do, Julia. Ever since you arrived."
"No," Julia managed to say, her voice barely audible. Her mind was reeling, a whirlwind of confusion and a strange, unwelcome attraction. His confession, his intense gaze, the lingering touch of his lips on her skin… it was too much, too fast.
He leaned in closer, his forehead resting gently against hers. His breath, warm and soft, ghosted over her lips. "Please, Julia," he whispered, his voice a low, husky plea that sent shivers down her spine. "Just… let me."
Julia's heart hammered against her ribs. "Let you do what, Alistair?" she asked, her voice trembling.
His eyes, dark and magnetic, dropped to her lips. His thumb, warm and calloused, slowly traced the curve of her lower lip, a feather-light touch that promised so much more. Julia's breath hitched again, a desperate gasp that caught in her throat. Her body tensed, an unfamiliar heat blooming deep within her. The world seemed to shrink, focusing only on his gaze, his touch, the unspoken longing that hung between them.
She pulled back, gently but firmly, breaking the spell. Her gaze, seeking a distraction, dropped from his magnetic eyes to the portrait still clutched in his other hand. It was beautiful. Truly breathtaking. Marian's face, captured in a moment of radiant joy, her eyes sparkling, a soft, genuine smile gracing her lips. It was Marian as Julia remembered her, vibrant and full of life.
"This portrait," Julia murmured, her voice filled with awe. "It's exquisite, Alistair. She looks so beautiful. So… happy." She traced a finger over the painted surface. "Why is this not the one hanging in the drawing-room? Those… those other portraits of Marian are so awful. The mournful one, and the unfinished one with the X through her eyes."
Alistair looked at her, his expression suddenly confused, the raw grief on his face replaced by a flicker of bewilderment. "Portraits? In the drawing-room? Julia, there are no portraits of Marian in the drawing-room. All of Marian's portraits are kept in my private gallery. And none of them are… awful. They are all beautiful, as she was."
Julia frowned, a chill prickling her skin. "But… yes, there are. I saw them. Two of them. One where she looks so sad, almost weeping, and another… an unfinished one. Her eyes were crossed out with a crude, black X." She remembered the cold dread that had washed over her when she saw them, the feeling that something was terribly wrong.
Alistair shook his head, his brow furrowed deeply. "Julia, you must be mistaken. I assure you, every portrait of Marian, all of them, are safe within my room. There are no such 'awful' images. And certainly none with her eyes defaced." He spoke with such certainty, such conviction, that it made Julia's head spin. Had she imagined them? Was her mind truly playing tricks on her? The thought sent a jolt of panic through her already frayed nerves.
Julia wanted to argue further, to insist on what she knew she had seen. But then, beyond Alistair, a shadow detached itself from the deeper shadows of the gazebo. A figure. Tall, gaunt, utterly silent. Mr. Finch.
He stood directly behind Alistair, his posture as rigid as ever. And in his hand, gleaming dully in the sparse moonlight, was a long, cruel-looking kitchen knife.
Julia's eyes widened in horror. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. Her breath caught in her throat, paralyzed by the sudden, terrifying sight. Finch. The knife. Alistair.
She tried to scream his name, to warn him, but her voice was trapped. The image of the knife, cold and sharp, filled her vision.
Before she could utter a single sound, before Alistair could even turn, Finch moved. A swift, brutal arc of his arm. The gleaming blade flashed.
And then, Alistair's throat. A sickening thud. A spray of warmth, wet and sticky, erupted, drenching Julia in a hot, metallic cascade. It was blood. Alistair's blood.
A guttural gurgle tore from Alistair's throat, a sound of choked surprise and agony. His eyes, wide and disbelieving, fixed on Julia for a fleeting moment before they rolled back. He crumpled forward, his body slumping heavily against hers, the portrait falling from his grasp.
Julia screamed. A raw, piercing shriek that clawed its way from her very soul, echoing through the silent, misty garden. The world tilted, spun, a kaleidoscope of blood and terror. Her mind, already teetering on the edge, plunged into a swirling abyss of darkness. She felt herself falling, falling into the chilling embrace of oblivion.