He wore a tailored wool coat and leather gloves, his shoes polished like he’d stepped straight out of a boardroom. His gaze swept over the manor grounds with familiarity.
I hadn’t seen him since the library, weeks ago.
“Elodie,” he greeted, turning his steps in my direction. There was tension in his posture, like he hadn’t meant to be seen. “Why aren’t you inside?” he asked. “It’s freezing out.”
“I’m headed to the greenhouse,” I said, lifting my mum’s book, the one he had gifted me.
A slight smile curved on his mouth, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“And you?” I asked. He looked down at the papers in his hand, clutching his familiar umbrella in the other.
“Business matters,” he said at last, and I nodded.
That made sense. Lilian seemed like someone who would put her work above her sleeping schedule. I hesitated, but then?—
“I’ve been meaning to ask you something,” I said, before he could disappear again.
He arched a brow, fixing the book under his arm. “Go on then.”
I hid my hands into the pockets of my coat. “Alex. How did he die?”
Hudson stilled, his features sharpening even more, if that was possible. For a second, the question justhungin the air.
“I should ask how you know about his death, but it’s impolite to answer a question with another.” His gaze met mine. “However, it’s not something I’mableto discuss.”
I bit the inside of my cheek, disappointment burning my throat like acid. Then his face shifted—just a flicker—but it was enough to catch. He sighed and opened his mouth again.
“It happened a few years ago—” His words cut with an unnatural slash. “Th—de—” The words tangled in his mouth, peeling the meaning away, before he winced, like trying to speak physically hurt him, right as a crack tore through the air.
We both turned in the sound’s direction in time to see a gargoyle break loose from the upper edge of the manor’s roof. It hit the ground with a shattering crack, splitting apart into jagged stone and dust.
We both stared at the wreckage. Neither of us spoke for a beat.
Then, Hudson reached into his coat and pulled out an envelope. No name on the front, just parchment, folded and sealed.
He placed it in my hand.
“Read it when you feel safe,” he said quietly. “Preferably alone.”
I frowned, curling my fingers around the paper. “What is it?”
His eyes were distant. “Just wait until you’re alone.” He repeated, then turned and hurried toward the small side-gate, as if whatever he came here for wasn’t important anymore. I looked down at the envelope, then glanced up, watching Hudson disappear from sight.
Only then did I break the seal and peeled it open. The paper inside stared back, blank and inkless, not even a mark on it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
AGNES
Sometime in the Seventeenth Century,
Thornhill
The Monster tests me before breakfast.
It leads me into the dining hall, where the table is cluttered with threads. Dozens of them—some silvery, some dull grey, a few red like wounds. Each one sings slightly different, like strings plucked from a harp.
“Which thread belongs to the lost shepherd boy?” it asks, pouring tea from a lavender-honey pot.
