The Ravenshade carriage rolled to a gentle stop in front of the Grantham cottage, and Elowen stepped down with wobbly grace. Her head still pulsed from the hangover, and her cheeks stung from remembering everything.
She barely made it up the stairs before the door swung open.
"By the stars, there you are!" Marianne cried, arms akimbo. "You look like someone dragged you through a ball, dunked you in wine, and sent you home with no explanations!"
"Good morning to you too," Elowen muttered as she stepped in, brushing past her with a huff of embarrassment.
Marianne sniffed the air dramatically. "You smell like regret."
Elowen collapsed into a kitchen chair, head in her hands. "I'm fine."
"You're rumpled. That's not fine," Marianne said, setting a plate of toast and eggs before her. "Eat. You look like a guilty duchess."
Elowen reached for the fork. "I'm not telling you anything."
"Oh-ho. Now I know something definitely happened." Marianne leaned in. "Come on. What happened? Did the Devil dance?"
Elowen groaned. "I got drunk."
A beat.
"You what?" a new voice chimed in. Maeryn.
She had just entered the room, her apron still dusted with flour, eyes wide with gleeful disbelief.
"I knew something was off! You got drunk with him?"
Elowen tried to bury her face into her plate.
Marianne gasped. "Did you call him sugar plum? Please tell me you called him sugar plum."
"No!" Elowen cried—too quickly.
Maeryn blinked. "Oh my gods, you did!"
They both burst into laughter, circling her like wolves sensing a flustered rabbit.
"I hate you both," Elowen muttered, but couldn't help a smile. "Can't a woman drown in shame in peace?"
"No," they answered in unison, grinning.
Meanwhile, across Eldhollow, Julian Ravenshade stood in his study, dressed in obsidian and silence. His long fingers turned the brittle pages of an aged tome titled Tales Beneath Tides—a rare text on sea creatures, bound in kelp-thread and preserved with salt.
His eyes scanned the passage again:
'They cannot bear to witness the destruction of their kind'
Julian tapped the corner of the page. His thoughts wandered—her trembling lips, the silent tears, the way she had looked at him like he was both savior and monster.
Perhaps she'd never seen feeding before. That kind.
He turned the page.
An elegant drawing of a wine goblet bled across the parchment. Underneath, inked with sharp clarity:
'Merfolk can sense blood in every glass of wine.'
Interesting.
He continued.
'Should a merfolk be given vampire blood laced with wine, their bodies will instinctively reject it—violently.'
"Hmmm. Intriguing," he murmured.
A knock echoed softly.
He didn't glance up. "Do come in, Tomas."
The butler entered, composed and silent as ever.
"My Lord," Tomas said with a bow. "Lady Morganna requests your presence in the north wing."
Julian sighed.
Lady Morganna Ravenshade sat on a chaise near her balcony, dressed in regal layers of midnight blue and antique silver. Her hair, untouched by time, was braided in loops like a crown. Her eyes—cold, sharp, always watching.
"You summoned me, Mother," Julian said, standing lazily near the fireplace.
She sipped her tea with grace. "You've been rather... theatrical lately."
Julian lifted a brow.
"No alliances. No attachments. No betrothal. And yet, you parade around with a human girl dressed to match your suit."
"She carried the dress well," he replied dryly.
"There are heiresses, Julian. Trained. Groomed. Pure."
"Pure boredom."
Morganna's eyes narrowed. "Alissa Thornvale is prepared to rule beside you."
"I'd rather be poisoned."
"You mock tradition."
"I'm allergic to desperation, Mother."
She exhaled deeply, folding her hands. "You've embarrassed us. Entertaining that girl—what's her name? Grantham?"
Julian's gaze sharpened.
"She is nothing but a meal," Morganna said coldly. "A temporary delight. And by aligning yourself with her, you lower your lineage."
The room grew colder.
Julian stepped forward, his voice cutting.
"Watch your words."
Morganna's eyes flared.
"She is a threat to your place."
"She is none of your concern," he said sharply. "And if you wish to keep your teeth, stop talking about her like she's prey."
A beat of tension hung like a blade between them.
Just then, Seraphine strolled in.
"Apologies," she drawled. "I could feel the drama brewing from three rooms away."
She walked to Julian's side and looped an arm through his.
"Oh come now, Mother. You're just jealous Elowen wears green better than Lady Alissa."
Morganna stood abruptly.
"I won't tolerate mockery in my own house."
"Then don't provoke it," Seraphine said sweetly.
Lady Morganna swept from the room, her heels clicking like threats.
Seraphine turned to Julian. "We'll always side with the wildflower, hmm?"
Julian gave a rare smile and nodded.
---
Back at the Grantham home, Elowen stood before the small vanity in her room, brushing out her damp curls. Her head still throbbed, but she felt lighter—especially now that she was away from vampire eyes and mocking heiresses.
She sat near her window with the local paper in hand.
'The Rosebury's Opera Fest Competition.'
Her fingers traced the announcement. Her heart skipped. Music. A stage. A chance to step on.
She began to hum softly, then sing.
Her voice poured like honey—soft, haunting, ethereal.
She closed her eyes and let it rise.
Then she dipped her feet into the small copper tub beside her bed, sighing in relief—until—
"Aghh!"
She jumped back. Steam hissed. The water had scalded her ankles.
Without thinking, her hands glowed faintly. Her skin shimmered where it had burned—and then, cooled itself.
Her heart raced.
No. Not again...
She ran to her drawer, pulled out a pouch of salt and a hidden vial of Blackstone ash. She poured both into the steaming water.
Her body responded instinctively.
Scales flickered at her calves. Her hair shifted color slightly, silver at the roots. Her skin glowed faintly with moon-kissed hues.
Elowen pressed a hand to her chest.
Not now.
---
Across the manor halls, Julian strolled through the east wing, his mind spinning with research notes, his mother's bitterness, and—
Her.
And for the first time that morning, he let himself think it.
What are you, wildflower?
And why… do I keep wanting to find out?