Mary was still crying when the sun came up.
Curled in the corner of her room, knees drawn to her chest, she let the sobs come in waves — silent, raw, relentless. The floor was cold beneath her. The silk robe Will had gifted her days ago felt suffocating now, clinging to her skin like silk-wrapped guilt.
She couldn’t stop thinking about his face.
The way he’d said her father’s name. The way he hadn’t flinched when talking about rope.
She couldn’t reconcile the man who had saved her life with the one who had destroyed so many others. And she definitely couldn’t reconcile the father she worshipped with the image of a man who had quietly destroyed someone else’s.
The door creaked.
Felicity entered like a shadow — graceful, unreadable, hands folded in front of her.
“You shouldn’t be alone,” she said gently.
Mary didn’t look at her. “He lied.”
Felicity tilted her head. “Did he?”
Mary didn’t answer.
Felicity knelt beside her, voice quiet, almost kind. “Life with him will be unbearable, you know. You think this is pain now? You haven’t even scratched the surface.”
Mary turned to her, brows furrowed. “What are you talking about?”
“I’ve known him a long time,” Felicity said. “I know what he does when the doors are closed. I know what he is.”
Her voice softened into something darker.
“He’s brought other girls here, Mary. You’re not the first.” She paused. “Some left his room bruised and broken. Some… didn’t leave at all.”
Mary’s heart lurched.
Felicity’s gaze sharpened. “You want to know how I know all this?” She smiled. “I was one of them. I was his. Before you. And when he was done, he tossed me like garbage.”
Mary recoiled. “You’re lying.”
But the words didn’t come out strong.
Felicity’s eyes didn’t blink. “No, sweet girl. I’m warning you.”
She reached into her apron and pulled out a small black velvet box.
“A gift,” she said. “From my real Master.”
Mary stared at it and didn’t move, while Felicity pressed it into her hands. Inside, nestled in black silk, was a small silver knife. Beautiful. Delicate. Deadly.
Mary’s breath caught.
“You’re the only one he lets close enough to strike,” Felicity whispered. “Maybe if it’s you, he won’t even fight it.”
Mary blinked, backing up slightly. “I don’t want this.”
But Felicity was already sliding the robe from Mary’s shoulders, moving with practiced ease. “You might not want it now,” she said. “But you’ll be happy it’s there. When the time comes.”
She slipped the blade into the inner sleeve of a fresh robe — pale blue, soft, deceptively gentle.
Mary clutched the fabric, shaken. “How do you know?”
Felicity’s lips curled, strange and brittle. “Because I’ve been ordered to prepare you.”
Mary’s stomach dropped. “For what?”
“For tonight.”
Felicity didn’t flinch as she led her to the bath. The water steamed softly, perfumed with jasmine oil. She washed Mary’s skin with slow, reverent care, rubbing scented oils into her collarbones, the curve of her neck, her wrists.
It felt ritualistic. Ceremonial.
After the bath, Felicity dressed her again in the robe, adjusting the sleeves with care — like a tailor ensuring the knife was close to the pulse.
Then she kissed Mary’s forehead, oddly tender.
“Tonight,” she murmured, “you’ll have to choose.”