***
Marcus stepped through the open doorway with slow precision.
The dim light pooled across the uneven floorboards, throwing the warped beams into long slants of shadow. The mill smelled of damp stone and old grain.
Harold stood near the broken window; one arm locked around Catherine’s throat. His other hand held a blade tight to her skin, pressed so close Marcus could see the sharp edge catch the light.
Yet she stood upright and very much alive. Her gaze found his—steady, unflinching. The set of her shoulders, the quiet balance in her stance, spoke of calculation. She was not paralysed by fear, nor pleading for her life.
Marcus, meanwhile, felt a fear greater than any he had ever known, while Catherine remained as composed as he had ever seen her.
My brave, brilliant wife,he thought as she met his gaze firmly once more.I believe she’s trying to give me an advantage.
Harold’s smile was stretched too wide.
“Set the satchel down,” he said. “Right there. Easy.”
Marcus reached slowly into his coat and lifted the satchel from beneath his arm, kneeling to place it on the dusty floor near a fractured crate.
Harold’s grip on Catherine remained tight, but his gaze drifted toward the bag.
“Good,” he murmured. “Now back away.”
Marcus straightened.
“I brought what you asked for,” he said. “Just let her go.”
Harold laughed. It was not loud and joyful, but dry and high-pitched, like old wood cracking.
“Let her go?” he asked. “She is the reason everything became so infernally tangled.”
Catherine’s expression did not falter, though Marcus discerned the faintest movement at her bound wrists.
“She betrayed you,” Harold hissed suddenly. “She played the clever wife, gathering your trust as though it were a prize. You imagine she has formed any true affection for you? She sought access. That was all she ever required.”
Marcus shook his head.
“That is a falsehood,” he said quietly.
Harold pressed on, heedless of the reply.
“And you, like a fool, believed her. There lies the difficulty, does it not? You began to care for her. That was never part of the design. All you had to be was the distracted academic husband. But then you had to feel. Always feeling. Always weakness.”
His breath came uneven now; the blade in his hand trembled.
He is unravelling,Marcus thought, his pulse quickening, though he could see Catherine was not wholly helpless nor paralysed by fear.He grows less predictable with every moment. I must hold his gaze—keep him speaking. She may not have long.
Catherine moved again, ever so slightly; the fabric of her sleeve stirred, just enough to draw Marcus’s eye.
She is working on freeing her bonds, he realised at last, a spark of hope flaring.If she can win free, I may overpower him. If not…
***
Catherine stood motionless in Harold’s grasp, her heart beating so violently it seemed to drown every other sound.
Yet even as the blade lingered at her throat, her fingers worked in patient, silent increments behind her back. The cord chafed cruelly, but she did not cease. She could feel the faintest slackening—the final resistance giving way.
Harold was spiralling.
