Julia stood, her initial shock slowly giving way to a wave of profound remorse. The vivid, horrific image of Marian's suffering filled her mind. She felt a searing shame for having suspected him, for having added to his agony by tearing open such a raw wound.
"Alistair," she began, her voice thick with regret. "I… I am so incredibly sorry. I had no idea. I never should have suspected you. I'm so sorry for bringing back all of this… all this pain." Her eyes pleaded for his understanding, for his forgiveness.
He shook his head, a faint, melancholic smile touching his lips. He reached out, his thumb gently wiping away a stray tear from her cheek, his touch surprisingly tender. "No, Julia," he said, his voice soft but firm. "You mustn't apologize. You are not to blame. I am. I should have told you. It was… too painful to speak of, and I thought by burying it, I could bury the grief."
His gaze held hers, earnest and intense. "It's natural, Julia, to want to know the truth about someone you loved. If I were in your shoes, I would have done the same. But you mustn't hurt yourself in the process. Blackwood Hall holds more sorrow than you realize."
Julia frowned, her confusion deepening. "Hurt myself? What do you mean, Alistair? How would I hurt myself, just by trying to understand what happened?" She looked around the room, the shadows suddenly seeming to lengthen, to deepen.
Just then, a polite but firm clearing of a throat broke the intimacy of the moment. Finch stood in the doorway, holding a silver tray with Julia's morning tea. His eyes, usually so impassive, flickered with a sharp, almost disapproving glance between Alistair and Julia, noting their proximity, the raw emotion in the air.
"My Lord," Finch said, his voice a low drone. "Forgive my intrusion. I was looking for you. Breakfast is ready in the dining room, should you care to join us downstairs." His gaze then shifted to Julia. "And I've brought your morning tea, Miss Harrow."
Julia felt a blush creep up her neck. The sudden interruption was jarring. "Thank you, Finch," she said, her voice a little shaky. "Yes, my migraines are already starting to prickle this morning. Tea would be a great help." She reached out to take the delicate teacup from the tray.
As she did, Alistair's eyes narrowed, his gaze falling to her hand, the newly bandaged cut standing out starkly against the paler old one. A fresh wave of concern washed over his face, replacing the lingering sorrow. He took the cup from Finch's hand, his fingers brushing Julia's.
"Julia," he said, his voice sharp with immediate concern. "What is this? Another cut? And so close to the one I bandaged just yesterday. How did this happen?" He looked at her intently, demanding an answer.
Julia hesitated, her mind scrambling for a plausible lie. She didn't want to tell him about the screaming Marian in the mirror.
Alistair saw her hesitation, his gaze unwavering. "Don't lie to me, Julia. You're not very good at it. I can always tell." His voice was gentle, but firm, leaving no room for evasion.
Julia sighed, reluctantly meeting his gaze. "It's… it's from the East Wing, Alistair," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "From the mirror."
Alistair's face tightened, a weary resignation settling over him. "You see?" he murmured, looking from her injured hand to Finch. "This is precisely what I meant. You will only hurt yourself." He turned to Finch, his tone commanding. "Finch, fetch the antiseptic cream and fresh bandages from the medical cabinet. Immediately."
"My Lord," Finch began, a flicker of displeasure in his eyes, "Perhaps Mrs. Keene or I could…"
"No," Alistair cut him off, his voice brooking no argument. "I will tend to it." He gestured to the bed. "Sit, Julia."
Julia obeyed, settling onto the edge of the bed. Alistair knelt before her, his elegant posture incongruous with the subservient position, his eyes fixed on her hand. Finch returned moments later, a small tin box of medical supplies in hand. Hot on his heels was a young maid, thin and timid, carrying a basin of warm water and a clean cloth.
The maid, Elsie, stopped dead in the doorway, her eyes wide with shock at the sight of Lord Alistair Blackwood, master of the house, kneeling before a mere guest, holding her hand.
"My Lord," Elsie stammered, curtsying deeply, her gaze darting nervously between Alistair and Julia. "I… I can clean the wound, My Lord. I am accustomed to such tasks." She gestured with the basin.
"No, Elsie," Alistair said, his voice surprisingly gentle, though still firm. He took the cloth from her, dipping it into the warm water. "I will see to it myself." He began to carefully, meticulously clean the fresh wound, his touch surprisingly deft and gentle. The familiar sting of antiseptic followed, and Julia winced, but his touch was steady, reassuring.
She watched him, a strange warmth spreading through her despite the pain. His face, usually so guarded, was etched with genuine concern. It was a confusing contradiction to the cold, manipulative man she thought she knew. As he worked, she couldn't help but notice Finch standing rigidly by the door, his face set in a grim line of obvious disapproval. He clearly did not approve of this display of intimacy, this blurring of lines.
Alistair finished, wrapping a fresh bandage expertly around her palm. He secured it with a pin, then looked up at her, his blue eyes, though still tired, holding a softened intensity. "There," he said, a faint sigh escaping him. "That should suffice for now. You are to rest today, Julia. Do not go downstairs, do not attempt to catalogue anything. Your hand needs to heal."
He then turned his attention to the timid maid. "Elsie," he commanded, his voice returning to its more usual authoritative tone. "Miss Harrow will take her meals in her room today. See that she is comfortable. You will be her caretaker until her wound is healed."
Elsie curtsied, murmuring a soft, "Yes, My Lord."
Alistair rose to his feet, dusting off his knees. He looked at Julia, a regretful expression crossing his face. "I would stay, Julia," he said, his gaze lingering on her, "but I have pressing matters in London. Urgent affairs that cannot wait." He squeezed her shoulder gently. "I will be back soon." With another brief, unreadable glance, he nodded to Finch and Elsie, then exited the room, Finch following silently behind him.
Elsie, still a little wide-eyed, quickly took charge. She brought Julia a tray laden with breakfast – poached eggs, toast, fresh fruit, and of course, a fresh pot of tea. Julia's right hand, her dominant one, was completely out of commission.
"Oh, Miss Harrow," Elsie said softly, her young face etched with concern. "Your hand… how ever will you eat?" She pulled up a small chair beside the bed. "Please, allow me. It's no trouble at all." And so, with surprising gentleness, Elsie proceeded to cut Julia's food and even feed her, her timidity contrasting with her helpfulness.
"You're very kind, Elsie," Julia said, genuinely grateful. "Thank you." She tried to engage the girl in conversation, asking about the house, about Marian, but Elsie remained reserved, her answers brief, her eyes darting nervously towards the door whenever Julia ventured too close to a sensitive subject. Julia noted the fear in her eyes, a mirroring of Callum's reaction. It seemed the servants of Blackwood Hall were as deeply entrenched in its secrets as its master.
The day passed in a haze of enforced rest. Elsie was attentive, bringing fresh tea, books, and even attempting to read aloud, though her voice was small and hesitant. Julia watched the shadows lengthen outside her window, the setting sun painting the sky in hues of orange and purple, before fading into the inky blackness of night. Despite the quiet, she felt a simmering unease. Alistair's confession, Elsie's fear, the dead rose – the pieces of the puzzle were forming, but the full picture remained terrifyingly obscured. She drifted off into an uneasy sleep, her bandaged hand throbbing.
She was in her dream again. But this time, it was different. She was held down, pinned against a cold surface. She struggled, but couldn't move. Gloved hands, cold and stiff, pressed against her shoulders, against her throat, holding her immobile. Dead hands.
A man's voice echoed through the dream, deep and resonant, yet chillingly devoid of warmth. "She promised," the voice repeated, over and over. "She broke the vow."
Then, the scene shifted. Julia was no longer held down. She stood, invisible, watching. And there, at the foot of her own bed, lay Marian's lifeless body. Her eyes were open, staring blankly at the ceiling, her once vibrant face ashen, still. The torn nightgown, the bloody stain – all horribly real. It was a tableau of death, intimately familiar, terrifyingly present.
Julia woke with a gasp, her eyes snapping open into the suffocating darkness of her room. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drum. The dream lingered, vivid and horrifying. And with it, a smell. The sickly sweet, cloying scent of roses, but beneath it, the unmistakable stench of rot. Decay.
She pushed herself up, her eyes wide, scanning the inky blackness. The smell was potent, suffocating. It was coming from… her bedside table.
Reaching out, her bandaged hand trembling, she fumbled for the matchbox she kept there. With a click and a flare, a small flame sprang to life, casting flickering shadows around the room. She held it up, her gaze fixed on the bedside table.
There, placed precisely beside her lamp, lay the dark, red-ribboned lock of Marian's hair. The one she had seen in Marian's room in the East Wing. And beneath it, a small, folded note.
Julia dropped the matchbox, the flame extinguishing, plunging the room into darkness again. She scrabbled for another match, her fingers fumbling in the sudden, overwhelming terror. The scent of roses and rot intensified, pressing in on her. The image of Marian's lifeless body at the foot of her own bed flashed behind her eyes.
She lit another match, the tiny flame dancing wildly. With a desperate urgency, she snatched the note from the table. The handwriting was Marian's, delicate, precise. Her eyes devoured the words, her breath catching in her throat.
You're already in his hands.
Julia screamed. A raw, piercing sound that tore through the silent house, full of terror and a chilling, dawning realization. The match flickered, then died.
Her scream hung in the air, shattering the silence. She scrambled off the bed, instinctively reaching for the door, twisting the handle. It wouldn't budge. She pushed, she pulled, frantic, but the door was firmly locked.
From outside her room, faint piano music started to play. Marian's favorite nocturne. Slow, mournful, utterly chilling.