The rest of the day felt like wading through mud, thick and slow. Chores piled up, a constant reminder of their crumbling world. Aisling moved through the drafty rooms of Blackwood Manor, her hands busy, her mind miles away, caught on the sharp edges of a memory: the letter, the crimson seal, the chill it brought worse than the house's endless cold.
She sat by the window as dusk bled into the sky, mending a tear in Liam's threadbare shirt. The needle danced through the fabric, but her thoughts were stuck on the Baron's words. I require your hand in marriage. Just like that. As if she were a package to be collected, a deal to be struck. The sheer nerve of the man, the icy certainty in his demand, made her stomach churn.
Later, she was in the small garden patch, fingers digging into the damp earth. Pulling stubborn weeds felt good, a small, fierce battle she could win. She ripped them out with the same wild energy she felt for the unwanted offer, the intrusive claim on her life. The soil was real, solid, a comfort against the unsettling memory of the letter, which felt like a threat whispered from a ghost.
As the sun dipped below the hills, painting the sky in bruised purples and oranges, she went to check on Liam. He was in his room, a thin shape against the fading light, sketching. The sickness had taken its toll, leaving him frail, but his hands were steady, tracing the delicate lines of a bird in his worn journal.
"Hey," Aisling said softly, sitting on the edge of his bed. "How are you feeling?"
Liam looked up, a flicker of his usual warmth in his eyes. He managed a weak smile, one of his precious few these days. "Better now the world stopped screaming. Did you... did you really burn it?"
Aisling nodded, touching the small silver moon pendant he'd given her, a cool weight against her skin. "Every single piece. Watched it turn to ash."
"Good," he said, a quiet relief in his voice. He closed his journal, his gaze thoughtful. "Don't think about it, Aisling. If Father hid it, he didn't think it mattered."
"But that he had it at all..." Her voice trailed off, the fear coiling in her gut again. "From him. Asking that..."
"I know," Liam said, reaching out a hand. His fingers were cool as they closed around hers. "But it's gone. We'll figure it out, like we always do. Together."
They talked quietly then, the kind of small talk that felt like building a fragile wall against the darkness outside. About the book Liam was reading, the quiet day, the colours of the dying light. Aisling brought him the thin stew she'd managed to conjure, watching him eat, every spoonful a small victory against the fever that clung to him. The worry was a constant, heavy stone in her stomach.
The house grew colder as night fell, a damp chill that seemed to seep from the very stones. She poked at the dying fire in the sitting room, trying to coax a little warmth from the embers. Every creak of the house, every rustle of leaves outside, made her listen, waiting for the familiar, uneven sound of her father's footsteps returning home.
Silence. Only the wind answered, a mournful sigh through the cracks in the walls. He wasn't back. The night pressed in, thick and heavy. And the phantom scent, like dark roses and cold iron, seemed to rise from the floorboards, a chilling whisper of the letter, burned but not forgotten.
Morning arrived not with a gentle hello, but with a punch to the gut. Aisling woke up gasping, like she'd been pulled from icy water. Her heart hammered, a frantic, trapped bird in her chest. Sweat plastered her nightdress to her skin; the sheets were a tangled mess around her legs, like something trying to hold her down. With a ragged breath, she kicked them off and sat bolt upright, lungs burning, every nerve screaming that something was terribly wrong.
Her room was quiet. Too quiet. Not the peaceful hush of dawn, but the kind that made the hairs on her arms stand up, made her skin crawl. It felt like the air itself was holding its breath, waiting.
She scanned the room, eyes darting. Curtains drawn. Hearth cold. Fireplace tools exactly where they should be. Nothing was different.
Except it was.
Her gaze snagged on the nightstand. And there it was.
The letter.
Ice flooded her veins.
She stared, blinked, then stared again. No. It wasn't possible. She'd burned it. Watched the flames lick at the edges, seen it curl and blacken, felt the satisfying crumble of ash in her hand. It was gone. Finished. Erased.
But it sat there now, perfect, like it had never known fire. Unburned. Unblemished.
And it smelled. Faintly, horrifyingly, of roses and rust.
That scent wrapped around her, a chilling embrace. It felt like a silken rope, tightening.
Trembling, she reached out, fingers hovering just above the paper. Would it bite? Vanish? Burst into flames? Her fingertips brushed the thick, expensive paper.
It was real. Solid. Sickeningly familiar. Her hands were cold and slick with sweat as she snatched it up. The handwriting was the same, arrogant and sweeping. The crimson wax seal, with its mocking Hawkrige crest, was untouched.
But then her eyes found it. Something new. At the very bottom, where only a signature had been, a new line stared back at her.
Not scratched or smudged. Freshly written, the ink still dark and glistening in the dim light, like wet blood. Aisling's stomach plummeted. She read the words once. Twice. A third time, as if sheer will could change them.
It didn't.
You will say yes.
We always come back to each other.
Her breath hitched. Something unseen pressed down on her chest, heavy and suffocating. No. Absolutely not. She wouldn't panic. Panic was for other people. She was the one who fought back, who talked too much, who charged in headfirst. This… this was just insane.
With a strangled cry of pure, raw fear and frustration, she flung the letter across the room. It fluttered like a dying moth and landed with a soft, mocking thump near the cold hearth. What fresh hell was this? Was this some kind of twisted magic? Or was she finally, completely, losing her mind?
"Aisling? What is it? What was that noise?"
Liam's soft, reedy voice came from the hallway, followed by a weak cough. Liam.
Aisling scrambled off the bed, rubbing her arms, suddenly freezing despite the sweat on her skin. The morning light filtered through the dusty, stained glass window, casting broken shapes like spilled wine on the floor. She ran a shaky hand through her wild auburn hair, trying to smooth away the terror she knew was written all over her face before her brother saw it.
Liam stood in the doorway, leaning heavily against the frame, his thin body looking even more fragile there. His copper hair was rumpled, and his emerald eyes, so like her own but softer, held a deep well of worry that seemed too old for seventeen. Just standing seemed to take all his strength, the fever a shadow always at his side.
"Aisling? Are you alright?" he asked, pushing himself gently away from the frame and taking a slow step inside. His gaze fell on the crumpled paper near the fireplace.
A fresh wave of fury and cold dread hit Aisling. She couldn't keep it in. "Alright?" she practically yelled, throwing a hand towards the letter. "Does this look alright? I burned it, Liam! Last night! You saw me! I put it in the fire, and it's back! It's back!"
Liam's eyes widened slightly as he followed her gaze. He walked slowly to the letter, his movements careful, and picked it up. His brow furrowed as he smoothed out the creases, his long fingers surprisingly steady. He read the words, his lips moving silently, and then his eyes dropped to the chilling line at the bottom.
He looked up at Aisling, his face a mixture of disbelief and fear that mirrored her own. "But... how?" he whispered, his voice barely a sound. He stared at the paper in his hand, then back at her, a terrible understanding dawning in his eyes. "I saw you, Aisling. It... it was ash." He gestured weakly towards the hearth. "It was... it was gone."
"Exactly!" Aisling cried, throwing her hands up in despair. "It was gone! This isn't just wrong, Liam! This isn't normal! This is... this is him." Her voice dropped to a terrified whisper, the name a poison on her tongue. "Baron Hawkrige."
Liam looked from her face, wild with fear, back to the innocent-looking paper in his hand. The new line, the arrogant words, seemed to pulse with a dark life of their own. If the letter could come back, what else could he do? The air in the room felt suddenly thick, heavy with a unseen threat. It wasn't just a letter anymore. It was a promise. A terrifying, impossible declaration.
He knew.
Liam's eyes met hers, and in that shared look, the terrible truth settled: they were trapped in a game they didn't understand, with rules that defied reality, played by a man who refused to accept no. And he had just shown them, in the most chilling way possible, that he could reach them anywhere.
He always came back.