“Perhaps he doesn’t need fixing,” her mother snapped. “Perhaps he just needs someone to listen to and understand him.”
Evelyne’s eyes darted back to her brother, his face serene in sleep, unaware of the conversation swirling around him. She prayed he couldn’t hear their words; this was not a discussion he should ever have to bear.
“I said I need time. Tomorrow, I’m meeting with the Stonebridge family to handle our other crisis. If Alaric breathes a word of what he saw today, I’ll have to explain it to Gaviel.”
“Fine,” her mother replied.
Evelyne heard their footsteps approaching and quickly slipped away to the safety of her room. Her mind spun with questions. Could she talk to Alaric before the meeting? Urge him to stay quiet? She doubted he would speak out—despite his teasing nature, he was honorable.
She had to get out. Had to run until the wind stung her face and the pounding of her steps chased away the whirlwind in her head. The day had been unbearable and she couldn’t sit with her thoughts any longer—she needed an escape, even if only for a little while.
Stripping off her blood-speckled dress, Evelyne let the garment slip to the floor before stepping into a pair of Cillian’s old, soft-fitting trousers, then pulled a loose white tunic over her head, its fabric draping easily around her frame. Turning to the mirror, she caught sight of her puffy, reddened eyes. With trembling hands, she swept her hair back and began braiding it, each twist and knot down her back a quiet act of regaining control. By the time the braid was secured, she felt steadier, though the ache in her chest remained.
She paused to take a deep breath before stepping outside. Once the spring air softly brushed her face, she broke into a run without another thought.
Chapter 11
Though it tugged at her heart to leave Cillian unchecked, Evelyne knew he needed rest more than anything. So she let him be, resolving to wait until morning, and sent word inviting him for a walk at first light.
The air was cool and carried the scent of coming rain. Evelyne and Cillian walked carefully along the damp path beyond the garden, the manor standing behind them. Somewhere at Stonebridge Manor, their father was deep in his meeting… hopefully focused on trade and alliances, and not Cillian’s condition.
Evelyne glanced at her brother. He looked pale but steady, the profound exhaustion from the night before softened in the morning light. She had insisted on this walk, eager to pull him away from the hovering servants and suffocating care. And beneath the open sky, he looked better. More at ease.
Her mother’s words lingered in her mind:“Perhaps he just needs someone to listen to him.”Watching Cillian cautiously, she wondered if her mother had been right. For now, Evelyne let the silence settle between them, setting aside her fears and questions. This moment was for him.
When Cillian finally spoke, it was barely above a whisper. “I’m sorry, Evelyne,” he said, his gaze fixed on the dirt path ahead. Every syllable sounded heavy with guilt, leeching the strength from his voice. “For everything. For scaring you. I’m… trying to understand it myself.”
Evelyne halted mid-step, turning to face him fully, her expression softening. “You don’t need to apologize to me, Cillian. I want to understand. Please, tell me what’s happening.”
He hesitated, the muscles in his jaw tightening as he glanced toward the horizon.
“I don’t think this is an illness,” he admitted. “Not the way they say it is.” He raked a hand through his hair, the motion frantic, like he was trying to claw the thoughts from his mind. “There’s a woman. I keep seeing her. But it’s more than that. It feels like something is inside me… waiting. Waiting for me to surrender to it. And I see these images…” He paused, as if thinking. “Strange, symbolic things I can’t explain.”
The faint quiver in his voice sent a ripple of unease through her, but she forced the fear down. Now wasn’t the time for panic; he needed calm. Steeling herself, she asked, “A woman? Like someone in a dream?”
“No,” he snapped, his head jerking toward her. “Not dreams. It’s different. She’s…it’sthere, in my mind. Not just when I sleep, but when I’m awake, too. And the symbols feel like something else—like a signal. Or a warning. Or—” He broke off, dragging his gaze down, hands trembling. “I don’t know,” he muttered. “I try to block her out, Evelyne. But it’s like something’s inside me, slowly eating away at my soul.”
Evelyne stepped closer, gently resting a hand on his arm. “Cillian, you’re not going insane,” she said firmly. “I believe you. Whatever this is, we’ll figure it out. Together.”
He met her gaze, and for a moment, pain gave way to a flicker of hope. “You mean that?” he asked softly.
“Of course I do,” she replied without hesitation. “But you have to tell me what you need. What can I do to help?”
He let out a tired breath, his shoulders sagging. “I wish I knew,” he murmured. “But I have to keep reading. I have to understand what’shappening.” His eyes flicked toward the distant sky. “That’s why I had those books with me.”
“Oh,” was all she managed to say. “I’ll be here, Cillian. Whenever you need me.”
He gave a small nod in thanks and kept walking.
Evelyne watched him closely, noting how the open air had eased something in him. It was clear that isolation and whispered consultations weren’t helping; their father’s methods had done little but make him feel more confined.
A cool raindrop kissed her cheek, pulling her gaze to the darkening sky, but she let Cillian continue ahead, choosing not to interrupt the calm he’d found. Still, her thoughts stirred. When her father returned, she would speak with him. Cillian didn’t need more rest; he needed direction. Something to hold on to. Something that reminded him of who he was.
Though the rain crept in and the cold clung to her, she stayed close, savoring the rare peace of simply being with her brother.
***
Cillian remained in his dimly lit chamber, having told the servants to let his parents know he would dine alone. He wasn’t sick, not in the way they thought, but he couldn’t handle another night of their wary glances and careful words. He needed to understand it all, but the books he’d taken from the library offered little clarity; only fragmented tales of ancient witches and lost magic that felt exaggerated, even absurd. Yet he couldn’t dismiss them entirely. This couldn’t be magic; the idea was ridiculous. But it wasn’t an illness either—not one that could be treated with tonics or endless examinations. Once, he had believed the healers’theories of possible neurological disorders, but after countless tests and failed treatments, their explanations no longer satisfied him.
