The darkness pressed in, suffocating. Julia screamed, a strangled, soundless cry that died in her throat. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a wild, frantic drum against the terrifying silence of Marian's room. Blood pulsed from the fresh gash on her palm, a stark, burning reminder of the shattered mirror and the screaming face within it.
She stumbled forward, crashing into a shrouded piece of furniture, then spun back towards the door. Blind panic lent her a desperate strength. She threw her weight against the heavy wood, clawing at the handle, pushing, shoving. The old hinges groaned in protest, echoing the torment in her own mind.
With a final, desperate surge of adrenaline, she remembered the letter opener still clutched in her hand. She jammed its thin tip into the gap between the door and the frame, twisting, prying. The wood splintered, a thin crack breaking the silence, and with a guttural groan, the door gave way. It swung inward just enough for her to squeeze through, tumbling out into the mercifully less oppressive darkness of the East Wing corridor.
She didn't stop. The chilling image of Marian's silent scream, the lingering scent of decay, the fresh blood on her hand – it all spurred her onward. She ran, stumbling through the dust-laden corridor, past the dark doorways and the horrifying child's shoe. She burst through the East Wing door, finding herself back in the familiar, albeit still shadowed, main hall.
The long journey back to her own room was a blur of terror and exhaustion. She reached her door, fumbling with the handle, her hand slick with blood. As she pushed it open, a new wave of unease washed over her. Dark, wet smudges marred the polished wood of her door – muddy fingerprints. Someone had been here. While she was gone.
Her gaze shot to her nightstand. Her breath hitched. The small, carved wooden bird Callum had given her was gone. In its place, lying precisely where the bird had been, was a single, dried rose. It was black, brittle, and utterly dead. A chilling message.
Julia sank onto her bed, pulling her knees to her chest, her bandaged hand throbbing. The sun would be rising soon, a faint grey light already seeping through the heavy curtains. But dawn brought little comfort. The house felt alive, watching her. And someone knew. Someone had been in her room.
She must have drifted off into a fitful, exhausted sleep, because the next thing she knew, a sharp, insistent rap sounded on her door. Before she could react, it swung open.
Agnes stood in the doorway, her stern face impassive, her gaze sweeping over Julia's disheveled appearance, the bandage on her hand, and then, pointedly, towards the open door of her wardrobe. "Good morning, Miss Harrow," she said, her voice devoid of warmth. "I trust you slept… soundly?"
Julia pulled the blanket higher, instinctively trying to conceal the raw wound on her palm. "As well as can be expected, Agnes," she replied, her voice raspy from sleep and fear.
Agnes's lips thinned into a disapproving line. Her eyes, sharp and knowing, fixed on Julia. "Mrs. Keene informed me you were up at unusual hours. And I must confess, Miss Harrow, I've found… certain things out of place this morning." Her gaze flickered to the direction of the East Wing, then back to Julia's face, accusingly. "Such as the seal on the East Wing door being broken."
Julia's heart clenched. So, they knew. Of course, they knew. Alistair, Finch, Agnes—they were all part of this elaborate charade. The anger that had been simmering beneath her fear finally boiled over.
"What did you expect, Agnes?" Julia lashed out, her voice rising, sharp and edged with a sudden, vicious fury. She scrambled off the bed, ignoring the throbbing in her hand. "Did you think I wouldn't notice what's happening in this house? Did you think I'd just sit by and let you all pretend Marian died of a fever?"
Agnes's stern face remained unchanged, but her eyes, for a fleeting moment, flickered with something akin to weary resignation. "We all are, Miss Harrow," she stated, her voice a cold, flat line. "Hiding things. Blackwood Hall has many secrets."
Julia took a step closer, her voice trembling with indignation. "Secrets that led to my cousin's death? Is that what you're saying? That you all stood by while Marian… while she was…" The image of the bloodstained nightgown, the crossed-out eyes, flashed in her mind. Her rage consumed her.
"I saw the blood, Agnes! I saw the journal! And I know Alistair is lying! If I find out anyone had a hand in her death," Julia threatened, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl, "I swear to God, I will make you all pay dearly. Every single one of you."
Before Agnes could respond, a sharp, commanding voice cut through the tension in the room. "What in heaven's name is going on here?"
Alistair stood in the doorway, his striking features etched with a mixture of annoyance and something colder, more controlled. He swept into the room, his gaze falling first on Agnes, then on Julia's flushed face and agitated posture.
Agnes, instantly deferential, straightened her apron. "Begging your pardon, My Lord. Miss Harrow was… agitated. She insists upon discussing matters best left undisturbed. She was… exploring the East Wing last night."
Alistair's eyes, usually so captivating, hardened into chips of ice. He fixed his gaze on Agnes, his voice dangerously low, a silken threat woven into every word. "Is that so, Agnes? And since when do you speak to a guest, a member of the family no less, in such a tone? This is not how we conduct ourselves at Blackwood Hall. You are dismissed. See to your duties, and do not let me hear of such impertinence again."
Agnes's face paled. She curtsied quickly, her eyes avoiding Julia's. "Yes, My Lord. My apologies, My Lord." She scurried out of the room, leaving Alistair and Julia alone in the charged silence.
Alistair turned to Julia, his expression a tight mask. He strode forward, his hand reaching out, not gently, but with a sudden, possessive grip, enclosing her bandaged wrist. "Now," he said, his voice firm, utterly devoid of its usual charm. "Is what Agnes said true? Did you go into the East Wing, Julia?"
Julia pulled back, trying to free her wrist, remembering Marian's fragmented warning: If he touches you… His fingers, strong and inescapable, felt like shackles. "Don't come close to me, Alistair," she managed, her voice trembling, retreating further until she hit the cold wood of the dressing table. "Stay back."
He ignored her plea, his eyes boring into hers, demanding answers. He took another step, closing the distance, his presence overwhelming. He was no longer the weary, sympathetic host from earlier. He was formidable, intimidating. He was cornering her.
"Answer me, Julia," he commanded, his voice rough now, no longer masked. He pressed her against the dressing table, his body a physical barrier. "Did you go into that wing? Did you break the seal?"
Julia placed her free hand on his chest, pushing against him, desperate to create space. "Let go of me!" she cried, her voice rising.
His grip tightened, almost painfully. "Answer me!" His voice was a low growl, unyielding.
"Yes!" Julia gasped, the word torn from her, ragged with fear and defiance. She wrenched her hand free with a sharp tug, stumbling around the side of the dressing table, putting distance between them. She stood on the other side, breathing heavily, glaring at him.
"Yes," she repeated, her voice gaining strength, fueled by a righteous anger. "I went into the East Wing because you are hiding something! All of you! I saw the blood on Marian's nightgown, Alistair! I saw her journal, destroyed, torn to shreds! I saw the missing portrait, the crossed-out eyes! This wasn't a fever, Alistair! Marian didn't just die of a fever! What happened to her? What are you trying to hide?"
Alistair's face, which had been a mask of controlled anger, contorted. His jaw clenched, a vein throbbing in his temple. His eyes, usually so piercingly blue, darkened to a stormy grey. He slammed his fist onto the dressing table. A delicate porcelain figurine, which she hadn't noticed, toppled and shattered on the floor with a sharp crash.
Julia flinched, her heart leaping into her throat. He had never raised his voice at her before, never shown such raw, unchecked fury. The charming veneer had cracked, revealing the violent temper beneath.
"You went into the East Wing despite me telling you explicitly not to!" he roared, his voice echoing in the room, shattering the remaining silence. He took a step towards her, his chest heaving. "You went into that forbidden place after I warned you, after I told you to leave Marian's final memories undisturbed!"
Julia stood her ground, trembling, but refusing to back down. "I am trying to find out what truly killed your wife, Alistair!" she shouted back, her voice strained. "And you are yelling at me! You are smashing things! What does that tell me?"
Alistair stopped, his shoulders slumping slightly. The raw fury in his eyes softened, replaced by a profound, almost agonizing sorrow. He ran a hand through his impeccably styled dark hair, dislodging a few strands. His voice, when he spoke again, was a low, broken whisper, filled with an anguish that seemed terribly real.
"You don't understand, Julia," he said, his gaze distant, filled with a tortured memory. "You don't understand what she became. What she was like in those final weeks. Marian… my beautiful Marian… she was not herself." He turned away from her, walking to the grimy window, his back to her. "She was unraveling. Piece by piece. The migraines, the visions… they were consuming her. She was going mad."
He turned back, his blue eyes glistening with what looked like genuine tears, though none fell. The sight of his vulnerability, his raw pain, was almost unbearable. It twisted Julia's resolve, pulling at her empathy. This was the dangerous part of him, the part that could draw anyone in.
"I was trying to protect her memory," he continued, his voice thick with emotion. "To preserve the Marian the world knew, the Marian I loved. I couldn't let them see her like that. The East Wing… it was for her own good. And for the family's reputation." He walked towards her again, his steps slow, deliberate. "And now you, Julia, you've come here and you're stirring it all up again. You're tearing open old wounds. You're trying to expose a truth that would destroy everything."
He reached out, his ungloved hand hovering over hers. "You are not strong enough for this, Julia. You are too sensitive. Too empathetic. You will only hurt yourself. Just as Marian did." He stopped, his gaze fixed on her. His voice dropped to a persuasive whisper. "Leave it alone, Julia. For your own good. And for mine."