Chapter twenty five: Fear in the halls
The next morning, the manor felt quieter than usual.
Elira stirred beneath the velvet coverlets, her body still aching from the tight corset, the cold eyes of nobles, and the aftermath of Lucien's rampage. The blood. The broken neck. The way Lord Alric's body had hit the marble floor like discarded meat.
It wasn't a nightmare. It had happened.
She sat up slowly, her fingers brushing her neck where the blood-seal collar still pulsed faintly against her skin. A dull throb lingered behind her temples. As her bare feet touched the cold floor, a soft knock came from the door.
It creaked open, and Mirelle peeked inside.
"Milady," the maid said quietly. "I thought you might want some air. The Lord said you're not to be disturbed unless you ask—but the morning's lovely, and... I thought..."
She trailed off, nervously toying with her apron.
Elira gave her a small nod. "Yes. I'd like that."
They walked in silence for a time, their footsteps light against the gravel path leading through the east gardens. The roses here had blackened edges, as though frost had touched them out of season. Somewhere nearby, a raven cawed and flapped overhead.
"Milady," Mirelle said hesitantly, breaking the silence. "You looked pale. I mean... after last night, who wouldn't be? I know it's not my place but—" She swallowed. "Are you all right?"
Elira didn't answer right away. Her gaze was fixed on a statue at the far end of the garden—an angel whose wings were cracked, eyes eroded smooth by time. She murmured, "I'm not sure."
A breeze rustled the leaves. The manor loomed behind them like a stone sentinel.
As they turned a corner by the hedge maze, one of the younger maids rounded the path quickly—arms full of linens—and nearly collided with Elira. The maid gasped in terror, stumbling backward and dropping the cloths across the gravel.
"I-I'm sorry, milady! Forgive me! I didn't mean—please, don't—!"
Elira blinked in surprise as the girl bent low, frantically gathering the fallen sheets with trembling hands.
"It's fine," she said gently, crouching to help her.
But the girl flinched back like she might be struck.
Elira froze. Mirelle stepped forward quickly, her voice firm but low. "Go on now, Anselma. Mind your footing."
The maid gave a squeaky nod and bolted without another word, leaving only the trailing scent of lavender soap and fear behind.
"They think I'll hurt them," Elira whispered.
Mirelle looked away, her hands clasped tight. "Not all of them. Some of them just... saw what Lord Thorne did. And they think it was for you."
Elira turned sharply. "It wasn't. I didn't ask for any of it."
"I know," Mirelle said quickly. "I know you didn't. But people whisper, and fear grows quick in places like this. Especially after a lord kills another noble in his own ballroom."
A pause passed between them. Birds chirped faintly in the hedges.
Elira lowered her voice. "Do you fear me, too?"
Mirelle hesitated. Then she shook her head, though her eyes were cautious. "I think you're the only one in this house still trying to be good. Even when it's dangerous."
Elira's heart clenched, unsure whether it was comfort or sorrow she felt.
They continued walking in silence. A sparrow fluttered down and landed on the hedge beside Elira—close, unafraid. She watched it, puzzled. Months ago, the very walls had rejected her presence. Now the creatures of the manor came nearer.
Something was changing.
Something inside her.
The sparrow flitted away, startled by a gust of wind. Elira watched it disappear into the trees, then turned to Mirelle, who had begun brushing stray leaves off the bench beneath the stone archway.
"Come Milady. Sit a while," the maid said softly. "You've barely spoken since yesterday."
Elira hesitated, then settled beside her. The bench was cool to the touch, carved with ivy motifs. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The silence wasn't heavy—it was the kind of quiet that comes when the air holds too much.
Mirelle folded her hands in her lap. "If it's not too bold… may I ask something?"
Elira glanced sideways. "You may."
"What were you like… before all this?" Mirelle asked. "When you were a child?"
The question struck her harder than she expected.
Elira opened her mouth, then closed it again. Her brows knit faintly as she tried to sift through the haze in her mind. "I…"
She blinked, confused. "I remember my brother. Calen. He used to braid flowers into my hair. I remember the smell of pine… and a song he used to hum when it rained."
Mirelle smiled gently. "That sounds like a good memory."
"But that's just it," Elira said slowly. "It's the only one I can touch clearly. I try to remember my parents, but all I see are shadows. I don't even know what their voices sounded like. I don't know what kind of home we had, or if we had a dog, or what lullabies they might've sung."
Her voice tightened, and she looked down at her hands, pale and still in her lap. "Isn't that strange? To have lived… but not remember how?"
Mirelle was quiet for a beat. Then she reached over and gently touched Elira's arm.
"It happens sometimes Milady," she said. "Especially after trauma. Sometimes the mind buries things deep so you don't break. But memories don't stay gone forever, my lady. They're like roots. Even if the tree above dies, the roots remember. You'll find them again. When you're ready."
Elira's throat burned with something unspoken. She didn't cry. Not yet. But the sensation of loss curled like smoke around her chest.
"Thank you," she whispered.
The two sat quietly for a few minutes more, watching the clouds stretch thin across the pale morning sky.
Finally, Elira stood. "I think I'd like to go back to my room."
"Of course," Mirelle said, rising at once. "I'll bring you tea, and something warm to eat. You don't need to come to the main hall tonight if you're not feeling strong."
Elira gave her a faint, tired smile. "He'll call me if he wants to."
Mirelle nodded in understanding. "Then I'll make sure your room is peaceful in the meantime."
As they turned back toward the manor, Elira glanced once more at the winged statue—its eyes blank, its hands clasped over a sword buried point-down in stone.
She didn't know why, but it made her heart ache.