The morning light in Blackwood Hall was always cold—silver, pale, barely warming the ancient stone corridors that seemed to hum with old breath. Julia woke tangled in her sheets, her body heavy with emotional exhaustion. She wasn't sure if she'd dreamed the entire, fire-kissed encounter with Silas, but her hands still faintly smelled of lamp oil and smoke.
She had to escape. Not a moment more could she spend beneath this roof. Not with Alistair's eyes, like shadowed claws, on her every move. Not with Marian's dress, still folded and smoldering in memory, tucked away in the grate of her fireplace.
She slipped through the servants' entrance before breakfast, a phantom in the mist-veiled gardens. The frost-bitten roses beneath her boots cracked with a sound like fragile glass. She didn't know where she was going, only that she could not breathe within the suffocating confines of Blackwood Hall.
Silas found her by the reflecting pool. She sat stiff-backed on a cold marble bench, staring into the murky water as if searching for answers she was too afraid to voice aloud. He didn't call out to her, simply waited until her gaze, drawn by some unseen tether, finally met his. Their silence was familiar now—companionable, charged with an unspoken understanding.
He gestured towards the stables, a silent offer. An escape. No words were needed.
The ride through the damp countryside was breathless and wild. They didn't talk, the wind tangling Julia's dark hair as Silas guided the horse down winding roads. Fog-drenched hedges and skeletal trees blurred past them. She pressed close to him, the heat of his body a shield against the icy morning.
They arrived in a sleepy, crumbling village, nestled like a secret between ancient hills. Silas dismounted first, then reached for her. His hand lingered on her waist as he helped her down, a warmth that spread through her chilled skin. Julia did not move away.
He led her to the ruins of an old church, its walls half-fallen, its roof collapsed in on itself. "This was built by the first Blackwood lord," Silas murmured, his voice low. "He lost his bride the night they wed."
He gestured to the moss-covered stones. "Some say she fell down the stone steps. Others say she ran." He turned to her, his amber eyes deep. "The truth, Julia, always lives somewhere in the middle."
Inside the ruins, moss bloomed through cracks in the altar, a carpet of green over forgotten sanctity. Ivy coiled around broken pews like grasping fingers. Julia walked to where the bride would have stood, sunlight spilling through a shattered rose window above, painting the dust motes in ethereal colours. Silas stood across from her, silent again, the space between them echoing with the ghosts of forgotten vows.
He reached for her hand, tentative, uncertain. She let him take it. Their fingers tangled like roots, seeking purchase in the barren earth.
And for one long, shivering moment, the world softened around them, holding them in its quiet embrace.
---
Back at Blackwood Hall, the air turned brittle with tension. Alistair paced the upstairs corridor, his patience fraying like old, worn thread. He stopped at a window, staring out at the swirling mist, his jaw clenched.
"Elsie!" he called, his voice sharp, clipped.
Elsie appeared, her eyes darting nervously. "Yes, my lord?"
"Where is Miss Harrow?" Alistair demanded, turning from the window. "She was not at breakfast."
Elsie curtsied, her voice steady despite her trembling hands. "Miss Julia, my lord, has been in the library all morning. She expressed a desire to research some estate documents. She even begged off luncheon, citing a headache."
Alistair's gaze slid towards the window, dark and unreadable. He knew Julia was not in the library. He knew she was with Silas. "Are you quite certain, Elsie?" His voice dropped, a silken threat. "Remember the consequences of lying to me."
Elsie met his gaze, her young face resolute. "Yes, my lord. Quite certain. She is in the library."
Alistair nodded curtly. "Very good, Elsie. You may return to your duties." He watched her go, a flicker of surprise in his eyes. Elsie, a timid maid, had lied for Julia. The depth of their connection, unexpected and unsettling, rankled him.
He strode to the bell pull, yanking it with violent force. "Finch!" he bellowed.
Finch appeared, his rigid posture unyielding. "My lord?"
Alistair whirled on him, his control unraveling like a ball of yarn. "Where are they, Finch? Where has she gone? And why, pray tell, was I not informed?" His voice was rising, echoing the old fury, the same desperation that used to seize him when Marian would slip away, out of his sight, out of his control. "They could have run off! They could be anywhere! Why was this not reported immediately?"
Finch remained stoic, though a faint line appeared between his brows. "My lord, I cannot know Miss Harrow's every movement. She is of age, and-"
"Silence!" Alistair roared, his hands going to his dark hair, clawing at the strands. "You are my butler, Finch! Your duty is to this house! To me! To ensure order! And you stand there, telling me you do not know where she is?" He began to pace, his steps heavy, agitated. "She is slipping through my fingers, Finch! Just as Marian did! I will not allow it! I cannot!"
Alistair's breathing grew ragged, his eyes wild. He began muttering, pacing faster, his self-possession dissolving into a frantic, barely coherent rage. Finch tried to intervene, to speak, but Alistair's fury consumed the air.
Just then, Agnes Thorne appeared in the doorway, her severe face calm, her presence like a sudden balm in the heated room. Her pale lips were pursed, but her eyes held a steady, almost comforting gaze.
"My lord," Agnes murmured, her voice flat, yet strangely soothing. "You are quite distraught. This will not do. You must calm yourself." She walked towards him, her movements measured. "We shall find Miss Julia. I shall find her myself and bring her to you."
She placed a cool, firm hand on his shoulder, her touch surprisingly gentle. Alistair visibly stiffened, then slowly, hesitantly, relaxed under her touch. He stopped pacing, his breathing evening out.
"Sit, my lord," Agnes instructed, guiding him towards a nearby armchair. "Let me fetch you some tea. It will settle your nerves." As he sank into the chair, she began to massage his shoulders, her fingers working out the knots of tension. "There, now. All will be well. She will be returned to you."
Alistair closed his eyes, leaning into her touch, his anger momentarily quelled by her unwavering presence.
---
Servants whispered behind closed doors.
"Have you seen the way the master looks at her?" a scullery maid murmured to a footman in the pantry. "Like a wolf watches a lamb."
"And the way he stormed this morning," the footman replied, shaking his head. "Just like when Lady Marian would sneak off. It's an ill omen, I tell you."
Word spread through the house like a cold draft. Some said Julia was cursed, bringing ill fortune to Blackwood Hall. Others whispered she had bewitched the lord of the house, ensnaring him in her pale beauty. The maids avoided her gaze, averting their eyes as she passed.
The cook, Mrs. Davis, grumbled endlessly to herself in the kitchen that "the Hall hasn't been the same since poor Lady Marian died, bless her soul." Even Mr. Finch, the loyal butler, watched her with narrowed, suspicious eyes whenever he thought she wasn't looking. None of them spoke aloud what they suspected: that Blackwood Hall was waking up again—and not kindly.
---
That night, Julia dreamed.
She stood at the altar of a church she didn't recognize, yet it felt intimately familiar. The air smelled of lilies, sweet and cloying, mingled with something older—the metallic tang of rot, the cold scent of rust. She was wearing Marian's wedding dress, the lace heavy and suffocating against her skin. Her hands were folded before her, trembling, as a faceless groom waited, a dark silhouette against a blinding light.
As the priest began to speak, his words a low, guttural drone, a warm, slick trickle ran from Julia's nose. It stained the pristine lace bodice of the gown, a stark, crimson bloom against the white. She tried to scream, but no sound came, her throat closing, trapping the terror within her.
She woke with a gasp, her body drenched in sweat, the sheets damp beneath her. Her breath came in ragged, terrified gasps. The blood, cold and metallic, was real. A thin stream ran from her nose, across her upper lip, and into the corner of her mouth.
She stumbled out of bed, her legs weak beneath her, her heart pounding like a frantic war drum against her ribs. She made her way to the washbasin, desperate to clean the stain, to wash away the nightmare.
She splashed cold water on her face, rubbing furiously at the blood. Then, slowly, she lifted her gaze to the mirror.
It didn't show her reflection.
Only Marian's.