“Agnes.”
“Agnes,” he repeats, like he’s tasting my name. “Pure as a lamb.”
My brows knot. “What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask.
“Your name.” He drops down into the garden, landing softly on the grass. “It has a Greek origin, meaning pure and lamb.” He takes a step in my direction, and I draw back, careful not to stamp on any flower. “In Celtic, it can also refer tosomeone with hunger. Are you a hungry person, Agnes?”
He watches as I think of it for a second, then I shake my head. “I’m not,” I say, but it feels like a lie. “You shouldn’t be here,” I add, the manor’s watchful eyes warming the back of my head.
His hand brushes the thyme.
“Areyoudangerous, Agnes of Thornhill?”
The invisible thread pulls tighter around my fingers.
“No,” I whisper. “But I’m not alone.”
His eyes are calm and golden and wild. They twinkle with what I recognize as humour.
“I’m glad to hear that.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
ELODIE
The greenhouse emerged from behind an old ash tree, cloaked in the same fading glory as yesterday. Moss and ivy clung to its iron bones like a protective blanket, shielding the glass panels from the sharp bite of late autumn. Brown leaves scattered the damp earth, their edges curling beneath the milky fog.
I found the door unlocked and slipped inside with my mum’s worn herbal book tucked under my arm. A whisper of warmth wrapped around me, thin, but kinder than the chill outside. Still, I was glad I’d chosen two sweaters, as my breath clouded from my mouth.
Light filtered through the glass, soft and grey, breaking over the room in fractured silver. Wooden tables framed the space, each lined with rows of earthen vases, some bloomed while others wilted. I stepped along the winding stone path, its edges worn smooth by time, and knelt beside a plant with silvery leaves and soft, pale fuzz along its stems.
I opened the book in my hands, the scent of crushed pine and damp soil wrapping around me. I flipped carefully through the pages until I found the one I was looking for.
I traced the drawing with a fingertip, pausing at the faded scribbles in the margins—my mother’s handwriting, delicate and curling like the vines around the door.
That’s why it was so familiar. She used to brew it when I had fevers, crushing the leaves with honey and lemon. It tasted bitter, but it always helped.
I plucked a few of the velvety leaves and tucked them into my pocket, then I closed the book, my fingers lingering on the worn leather cover.
The greenhouse breathed around me, quiet and damp and alive with green. In the far corner, beside a spindly tree with curling branches, sat an iron chair and a round table dusted in rust. I made my way along the narrow stone path, trailing my fingertips along leaves both soft and spiny. Some were familiar, others strangers.
The earthy sharpness of the air filled my lungs, heady and clean. After years of city smog, this place felt like breathing for the first time. I curled into the chair, tucking my legs beneathme, and set the book on my lap. That’s when I noticed a tiny marking on the wooden surface of the table.
E.T.
Could it be Esmée Thornbury? I traced the harsh edges of the carving, my heart thudding faster than before. It felt like she had left a message, as if saying,I was here.
I placed my palm over it, hiding the letters from my eyes, until my heartbeat slowed. Only then did I lift my hand away and flip the book open. I wanted to mark the pages I thought might be useful later.
My fingers brushed over my mother’s notes, pencilled across the page with a light, looping hand. Careful warnings, sometimes underlined twice.
There was a fine line between healing and harm, but I’d learned long ago how to walk it.
She’d taught me everything she thought I would need in life. She taught me how to survive, how to defend myself… so why has it felt like I’ve been drowning since she’s been gone?
Outside, a sharp clatter split the stillness. The unmistakable sound of the gate bell reached through the glass, making me stiffen. Someone just arrived.
I snuck backinside the manor to the sound of a low-toned laugh echoing through the empty hallways. I glanced around and followed the sound on the ground floor, passing paintings of mythical creatures—dragons mid-roar and fairies with needle-sharp teeth. It was clear as day, whoever had painted them was fond of fairy tales.
