The carriage wheels fell silent as Rosenthal Hall loomed in the dusk, its stone walls catching the last strands of sunlight like an ancient sentinel. The estate's towers and gables rose into the evening sky, heavy with ivy and shadows. To most, it was a house of ghosts. To Evangeline, it was simply home.
Mr. Harrow escorted her up the broad marble steps, while Anna fussed with the hem of her skirts, as though smoothing away the morning's cruelties. Once inside, the familiar hush of the great hall wrapped around her, broken only by the muted crackle of the fireplace. The portraits of her ancestors lined the walls, their oil-painted eyes seeming to follow her with the weight of centuries.
"Rest, milady," Harrow said gently. "I will see to the preparations for tomorrow."
Anna bobbed her head eagerly. "And I'll fetch hot water for your bath. You mustn't brood on what they said outside the church. Tomorrow will be a day of joy."
Evangeline only nodded, her thoughts distant, and ascended the staircase alone.
Her chambers were vast, lit by the orange glow of fading daylight. She shrugged out of her church gown with practiced grace, trading it for the comfort of a soft robe. Steam curled from the bath Anna had prepared. The warmth eased her body, but not the tension in her heart.
When she stepped out, droplets of water trailing along her collarbone, she crossed toward her vanity to dry her hair. The great mirror above the carved desk stood fogged with condensation from the bath. She reached for her comb—then froze.
Something was scrawled across the misted glass.
We will meet again.
Her breath caught. The letters were jagged, as though etched by a finger not entirely human. She touched the mirror; the words blurred slightly but did not vanish. A tremor rippled through her chest.
Who…?
Her thoughts leapt unbidden to the golden figure in the cathedral—the warmth of Aurelius's smile, the way he had reached for her hand as if she were not cursed but cherished. Could it be? Had he left such a message, somehow slipped inside the Hall, his devotion bold enough to cross boundaries?
Her cheeks flushed with heat, her loneliness momentarily soothed by the fantasy. Yes, she told herself. It must have been Aurelius.
The first light of dawn crept pale and silver through Evangeline's heavy velvet curtains. She stirred, her lashes fluttering as the soft rustle of skirts and hurried footsteps broke the silence of her chamber.
"My lady, forgive me for waking you so early," Anna whispered, her excitement bubbling despite her attempt at formality. "But you must see this at once."
Evangeline sat up, the silk of her nightgown pooling around her as Anna approached with two bouquets cradled in her arms. The scent filled the chamber before the sight fully registered—rich, cloying, overwhelming.
"The first," Anna said, carefully laying down a cascade of golden lilies, their petals catching the light like captured sunlight. A gilded ribbon bound them together, and tucked within was a crisp card. In bold, sweeping letters, the name gleamed:
Lord Aurelius Veyron.
Evangeline's lips parted. A warmth spread in her chest, the memory of his golden gaze in the ballroom blooming like a fever.
"And the second," Anna continued, her tone shifting, softer, almost uneasy. She revealed a bouquet of white roses. Their petals were unnaturally pale, unmarred—save for the very tips, which bled crimson as though dipped in blood. No ribbon adorned them. No card, no signature. Only silence.
Evangeline reached out, her fingers hovering above the strange roses, but she did not touch them. "No sender?" she asked quietly.
"None," Anna replied, biting her lip. "The servants are already whispering belowstairs. They say it must be from another admirer. Perhaps even a rival to Lord Aurelius."
"Or a warning," Evangeline murmured, though she did not know why the words escaped her lips.
The roses seemed to watch her, their bloody edges glistening faintly in the morning light. She thought of the fogged mirror, of the jagged words written in the mist. We will meet again.
Her heartbeat quickened. She pulled her hand away and turned instead to the golden lilies, clutching the card as though it were a lifeline. Aurelius was real. Solid. Warm. His devotion explained everything.
Yet, even as she buried her face in the sunlit blooms, a part of her felt the roses' cold presence linger, their scarlet-tipped petals whispering promises only she could hear.
Down in the servants' quarters, the whispers had already begun:"The golden lord courts her.""No—look at the roses. There is another.""Perhaps the Rosenthal curse has found its suitor."
By the time Evangeline dressed for her eighteenth birthday morning, the Hall itself seemed alive with speculation. Two bouquets, two suitors, two fates.
And above it all, unseen, the shadow that had always watched her smiled in silence.
Anna lingered as Evangeline's maidens finished lacing her gown, her eyes darting uneasily toward the white roses resting in their vase. She could not seem to look at them without crossing herself under her breath.
Evangeline caught the gesture in the mirror. "Do not look at them so, Anna," she said softly. "They are beautiful."
"Beautiful, yes," Anna admitted, her fingers tightening on the brush she held. "But unnatural, my lady. White roses don't bleed. Whoever sent them… it feels unholy."
Evangeline rose, moving to the vase, her pale fingers brushing against the crimson-tipped petals. She smiled faintly, though her voice carried a thread of wistfulness.
"Unholy? Or perhaps… unspoken. There is kindness in a gift given without demand for recognition. It is easier to stand in the light when one is golden like Lord Aurelius. But to send roses in silence, without expectation—" she paused, her hand tightening ever so slightly on the stem, "—that feels more like mercy."
Anna frowned. "You think it is mercy, my lady? I think it is a warning."
Evangeline turned, her expression calm, serene, though her eyes glimmered with loneliness too deep for Anna to understand. "If ever you discover who sent them, Anna, promise me you will tell me at once. I would wish to offer them my gratitude."
Anna nearly dropped the brush. "Gratitude?"
"Yes." Evangeline's voice was firm now, her gaze distant. "For in this house, whispers say the Rosenthal curse drives all love away. Yet here stand two bouquets on my birthday morning. If curses can bloom into roses, then perhaps they are not curses at all."
Anna opened her mouth to protest but faltered. There was no reasoning with that gentle sadness in her mistress's eyes. So instead she bowed her head, murmuring, "As you wish, my lady."
And though Evangeline turned her attention back to the golden lilies, her heart gave a traitorous flutter when the roses' crimson edges caught the morning light—like drops of blood that glistened just for her.