The walk back to my chambers stretches endlessly before me, each step a reminder of what remains unfinished between us after Lydia sent a servant with some urgent matter requiring Dorian’s immediate presence.
Something concerning blood rights. What are those damn blood rights?
My body still burns where Dorian touched me, his hands leaving invisible marks that pulse beneath my skin. The grey walls of my room feel colder than ever as I close the door behind me, leaning against it to catch my breath that refuses to steady itself.
"My lady?" Mira emerges from the shadows where she waits, her keen eyes immediately finding mine. She steps closer, studying my face with an intensity that makes me turn away. "Your eyes... they're different."
"Different how?" I ask, though I already know the answer. I can feel it—the way colors seem sharper, the way shadows hold more depth than they did in the morning.
"Brighter. More alive." She moves to help me with my blood stained dress, her fingers working the buttons with practiced ease. "Like you've finally awakened to something."
Or someone, I think, but keep the thought buried deep.
"My lady, I must tell you something," Mira says, her voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "Lady Lydia was in the servants' quarters today. She was asking questions about you, about your routines, your meals. She made threats to anyone who wouldn't answer."
"What kind of threats?"
"The kind that leave bruises where they won't show." Mira's jaw tightens. "Cook's assistant has a mark on her arm shaped like fingers. She wouldn't say who gave it to her, but we all know."
I pace my chambers as the night deepens, unable to find rest. Through the walls, I hear distant voices raised in anger—Dorian's deep tones mixing with Lydia's sharp ones.
Whatever she's holding over him, whatever these blood rights are, they argue about it for hours.
At one point, I venture to my door, pressing my ear against the wood. Footsteps pass by—multiple sets, hurried and heavy.
I hear Lydia's voice closer now: "You think she's different, but she'll destroy us all. Mark my words, Dorian. The girl will be our ruin."
His response is too low for me to hear, but the venom in her laugh makes my skin crawl.
I return to my bed, but sleep remains elusive. Instead, I sit by the window, watching the moon track across the sky. Sometime near three in the morning, I see carriages being loaded in the courtyard below.
The guests are leaving, fleeing in the dark like rats from a burning building.
Dawn comes slowly, painting the sky in shades of grey and pale pink. When exhaustion finally claims me, I drift into an uneasy doze in the window seat.
I wake to find something on my pillow that wasn't there before. A dove lies beside where my head rested, its white feathers pristine except for the unnatural angle of its neck.
No blood pools beneath it—every drop has been drained, leaving the small body a hollow shell. The message couldn't be clearer if Lydia had written it in her own hand.
I dress quickly, my fingers trembling only slightly as I place the dead bird in a cloth. The dining hall echoes with emptiness when I enter. The long table that yesterday hosted dozens of guests now holds only three place settings.
"Where is Dorian?" I ask the footman who pulls out my chair.
"His Grace left at dawn on urgent business. He didn't say when he would return."
"Lady Lydia?"
"She accompanied him, my lady."
The breakfast spread before me suddenly looks suspect. Every dish could hide poison, every drink could carry death. I push the plate away, my appetite vanishing entirely.
"Send for Mira and Marjorie," I tell the footman. "Ask them to join me for breakfast."
He hesitates, clearly uncomfortable with the breach of protocol. "My lady, servants don't typically—"
"They do today."
Mira arrives first, Marjorie close behind, both wearing expressions of barely concealed concern.
"Sit," I tell them, gesturing to the empty chairs. "Please."
"My lady, this isn't proper," Marjorie protests even as she takes her seat. Her eyes scan the untouched plates before me. "You haven't eaten anything."
"I'm considering whether Lydia might have poisoned it." I pour tea for all three of us, watching the amber liquid swirl in each cup.
Marjorie shakes her head firmly. "That's not her style, my lady. Lady Lydia prefers her victims to see death coming. Poison is too subtle, too anonymous for her tastes."
"Then you won't mind if I tell you what she did leave for me." I gesture toward the cloth-wrapped bundle on the side table.
"The dove," Mira says. It isn't a question.
"You knew?"
"The kitchen maid found blood in the courtyard. A perfect circle of it, with not a single feather to show what bled there." Mira tears a piece of bread, testing it before passing half to me. "She drained it somewhere else, then brought it to you."
"She wants me to know she can reach me anywhere," I say, accepting the bread though my throat feels too tight to swallow. "Even in my sleep."
"Lord Elias will return," Mira says suddenly, her voice firm with conviction. "He wouldn't abandon you here."
"Elias is gone." The words taste like ash in my mouth. "And if he does return, it will only be to kill me too."
"My lady," Mira whispers. "You surely don’t think—"
The doors to the dining hall swing open with enough force to make all three of us jump. Vassier strides in, his usually composed face bearing an expression I've never seen before—something between satisfaction and reverence.
"Lady Rosalind," he says, bowing lower than protocol demands. "Lord North has sent word. You are to be moved immediately."
"Moved?" I set down my teacup carefully, noting how Vassier's eyes follow the motion. "To where?"
"To the adjoining chambers of his own quarters, my lady. The rooms that connect directly to his own through the private door."
Marjorie gasps, her hand flying to her throat. "But those rooms... no bride has ever..."
"No," Vassier agrees, his smile sharp as a blade. "No bride has ever occupied those chambers. They've been sealed for seventy years, waiting for someone Lord North deemed worthy of such… proximity."
Proximity.
The word sends heat racing through me, memories of Dorian's hands, his mouth, the promise of more flooding back with violent intensity.
"When?" I manage to ask, my voice steadier than my pulse.
"Now, my lady. The servants are already preparing the rooms. Lord North was quite specific—everything must be perfect for your arrival."
I stand, Mira and Marjorie rising with me. "Then we shouldn't keep him waiting."
Vassier's smile widens, and for the first time since I arrived at Wintergrave Manor, I see something like approval in his ancient eyes. "No, my lady. We certainly shouldn't."