Underground.
Somewhere else.
And the old man…
His voice, his touch, the symbols etched in blood.
“I keep remembering...I was somewhere else,” I whispered.
“Underground.There was an old man.He… was taking care of me.”
“Elizabeth.”
Mary’s hand found mine—warm, grounding, real.
“You’ve been here this whole time.You’ve been ill, but you never left this room.It’s only your fevered dreams that took you elsewhere.”
Her words struggled to settle, fighting the storm still raging in my mind.
“Then how?—”
The question died on my lips.
Because the answer had already bloomed in my heart, cold and bitter.
“My father…”
Mary’s expression didn’t waver.
“I told you.Most died that night.”
Her voice was even, but beneath it, I sensed a quiet fury, a grief too long carried.
“Your father survived, but he is a changed man.Bitter.We’ve lost nearly everything.The estate is in shambles.Most of the servants are gone—frightened away by him.It’s a miracle this house, our home, hasn’t been taken from us already.”
I lay there, absorbing her words.
A miracle.
It felt like a curse.
Miracles were for saints and martyrs.
Not for women like me, who had toyed with death in glass vials, whispered forbidden incantations over open flames, and lost everything.
Mary’s eyes darted away, and a shadow flickered across her face.
“What is it?”
The edge in my voice was thin, frayed by fear.
Her hesitation hung between us, thick and suffocating, like the heavy drapes that locked out the sunlight I craved.
“Elizabeth.”
My name broke on her lips, trembling like the last leaf clinging to an autumn branch.
Her hands tightened around mine.
