Julia stumbled back from the shattered mirror, her breath catching in her throat. Marian's reflection had been horrifyingly real, her eyes wide with a frantic terror that mirrored Julia's own. "Get me out of here, Julia! Please, get me out!" Marian's voice, a desperate, reedy whisper, seemed to coil around her, begging to be released. "I can't bear this suffocation. We can go to London, Julia! I have money, so much money! We can rent a house, just us!"
Julia shook her head, tears streaming down her face, pressing herself further into the corner of the room, her body trembling violently. "No... no, I can't. I can't."
Marian's ghostly voice sharpened, a resentful edge to her tone. "Why not, Julia? Are you a coward? Are you afraid to live? To be free?" The insults stung, each word a fresh wound.
"Please, Julia," the voice pleaded now, a heartbreaking shift to desperation. "Take me away from here! I can't bear it any longer!" The whispers intensified, then escalated into a guttural, frantic scream that tore through the silence of the room, echoing in Julia's ears until she thought her skull would split. She clamped her hands over her ears, shutting her eyes tight, rocking herself back and forth.
Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the screaming stopped.
Julia slowly opened her eyes, her gaze fixed on the mirror. Nothing. Just the reflection of her own terrified face. With a desperate sob, she grabbed the heavy vase from her bedside table and, with a guttural cry, hurled it at the mirror. The glass exploded outward, showering the floor with glittering shards, a violent punctuation to her terror.
She spent the rest of the night crouched on the floor, too terrified to even approach the bed, let alone sleep in it. Her nose continued to bleed, a faint, persistent trickle, and the dizziness from the blood loss swirled in her head, making her feel even more unmoored. She kept the towel pressed to her upper lip, desperate for Elsie to arrive with breakfast. But Elsie didn't come. Julia frowned, wondering why Elsie had been so distant and fearful lately. She wanted to ask her, to pull her close and understand.
A soft, rhythmic tapping on her door finally broke the silence of the oppressive morning. Once, then twice. Silas.
She opened the door a crack, her expression wary, the towel still pressed to her upper lip. Silas's amber eyes, usually so guarded, widened imperceptibly, his gaze instantly dropping to the blood-stained towel. The crack in his mask was brief, but clear: raw worry. His brows furrowed with immediate concern.
"Julia," he said, his voice a low, rough murmur, thick with concern. "Your nose… are you alright? You're so pale." He reached out, his hand hovering, unsure if he should touch her.
"I'm fine, Silas," she murmured, though her voice was reedy and weak. "Just a rough night. It's nothing."
He reached out, gently cupping her chin, his thumb brushing against the faint smear of blood. His gaze was impossibly soft, full of an unspoken understanding. Then, he leaned down and pressed a tender kiss to her forehead. "You'll be fine," he whispered against her skin, his lips warm. "We'll be fine."
Just then, Elsie appeared, bearing a tray laden with breakfast for two. Her eyes darted nervously between Julia and Silas, then to the shattered mirror. "Miss Julia," she began, her voice small, "Lord Alistair expresses his displeasure that you both did not join him at the breakfast table."
Julia stiffened, the sound of Alistair's name sending a wave of revulsion through her. The memory of his forced kiss, his possessive hands, made her stomach churn. "Tell him, Elsie," Julia said, her voice laced with ice, "that we will not be joining the table for a while."
Elsie nodded, her shoulders slumping slightly, and she hurried away, doubtless to relay the message. Julia turned back to Silas, her face still pale, but with a faint flush rising to her cheeks.
They ate in a comfortable silence, Silas's gaze unable to leave Julia's face, tracing the delicate curve of her jaw, the slight tremor in her hands. Julia felt the warmth of his eyes on her, a blush creeping up her neck.
"You look rather captivating with jam on your chin, Miss Harrow," Silas remarked, a sly smile playing on his lips. He reached out, gently wiping a smudge of strawberry jam with his thumb, his touch light, sending a shiver through her.
Julia laughed, a genuine, soft sound. "And you, Mr. Corwin, look quite well-fed for a starving poet."
He chuckled, his eyes twinkling. "A starving poet benefits greatly from the company of a muse who inspires such… robust breakfasts."
The easy banter continued, a fragile bubble of normalcy in the tense house, until they had finished eating. Julia excused herself to bathe and change, leaving Silas to gather the plates. The warmth of his kiss still lingered on her forehead, a quiet promise.
She returned to find Silas waiting, impeccably dressed. Together, they descended the grand staircase.
---
Downstairs, the Hall was quieter than usual, too quiet, the air thick with unspoken tensions. Mr. Finch was stationed at the west staircase like a rigid gargoyle, his expression unyielding. He watched their descent with narrowed eyes.
"Good morning, Miss Harrow. Mr. Corwin," Finch greeted, his voice clipped, devoid of warmth. "Lord Alistair has requested I inform you that you are not to leave the Hall." His gaze shifted pointedly to Julia. "Given your fragile health, Miss Harrow, Lord Alistair deems it best you remain within the manor at all times, without his express permission."
Julia felt a fresh wave of fury. Her jaw tightened, her hands clenching at her sides. "Fragile health?" she retorted, her voice sharp, barely contained. "Am I a prisoner, Finch? Property, to be locked away whenever Lord Alistair sees fit? Since when does he dictate my movements?"
Finch's face remained impassive, though a flicker of defensiveness crossed his eyes. "Lord Alistair merely has your best interests at heart, Miss Harrow. After your… unfortunate fainting spells and last night's distress—"
"Distress?" Julia cut him off, her voice rising with each word. "You dare speak of my 'distress' when your master has me seeing ghosts and believes he can simply… take what he wants?" She glared at him, her eyes blazing. "I am not Marian, Finch! I am not a possession to be kept and commanded!"
"That is quite enough, Miss Harrow!" Finch's voice hardened, his duty overriding his usual restraint. "You forget yourself. Lord Alistair's word is law in this house, and your behavior is hardly befitting a lady."
Silas stepped forward, his hand gently but firmly clasping Julia's arm, his touch a steadying force. "Julia, that's enough," he murmured, his voice calm, yet with an undeniable authority that made her falter. He turned to Finch, a polite, almost placating smile on his lips that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Mr. Finch, I assure you, I understand Miss Harrow's delicate health. I have no intention of taking her anywhere that would endanger her. My concern for her well-being is paramount."
Julia started to protest, but Silas's grip on her arm tightened almost imperceptibly, a silent warning. He then subtly gestured with his eyes towards the various corners of the hall. Mrs. Davis, the cook, stood in the doorway of the servants' quarters, a heavy iron ladle clutched in her hand like a weapon, her eyes fixed on them. William, the footman, was still lingering by the grand clock, diligently polishing its brass, but his gaze darted towards them every few seconds.
Silas caught it instantly—the performance, the stage set. He leaned in to Julia, his voice a low, almost inaudible whisper. "We're being watched, Julia. Every move, every word."
Julia's anger cooled, replaced by a cold realization. She nodded, allowing Silas to take the lead.
Silas straightened, his smile now a touch too wide, a shade too polite for sincerity. "Then, if we are to remain within the confines of this magnificent establishment, Mr. Finch," he began, his voice dripping with sarcasm, "may we at least have Lord Alistair's permission to consult some of the esteemed volumes in the library? For Miss Harrow's intellectual stimulation, of course."
Finch's gaze flickered upward, to the banister of the grand staircase where Alistair now stood, a dark, unreadable silhouette. His eyes, however, were fixed on Julia, a soft, predatory gleam in their depths. Julia met his gaze, her own burning with defiance. Alistair gave a curt, almost imperceptible nod.
Finch sighed, a barely audible sound of resignation. "Very well, Mr. Corwin. You may proceed to the library."
"How wonderfully generous," Julia murmured, her voice laced with saccharine sweetness, as she pulled her arm from Silas's grasp and curtsied with exaggerated politeness. "Our deepest gratitude to Lord Alistair for such boundless hospitality."
Silas's lips twitched, a silent acknowledgment of her defiance. He took her arm again, more gently this time, and led her towards the library doors.
They entered the vast library, the scent of old paper and dust filling the air, but they didn't stay. Julia turned to Silas, her brow furrowed. "Why are we being watched, Silas? What does Alistair think we're doing?"