Not a single chestnut curl. Not a single laugh.
Just birdsong. And wind.
By nightfall, I return to the manor. The Monster is waiting by the hearth, its long fingers curled around its tea.
It doesn’t look up.
“You knew,” I say quietly, betrayal burning my throat.
Silence. Then it slowly lifts its gaze. There’s something ancient in its eyes.
“Sit,” it says.
And I do, curling into the empty armchair beside it. The weight of my aching heart sinks me with ease.
“You see the threads, Agnes. You know how easily they tangle, how quickly they break.” It looks into my eyes, the warmth of the fire playing on its skin. “People are no different. The world is not made for soft-hearted girls like you. You’re safer here, where I’m always close.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
ELODIE
The greenhouse door clicked shut behind me, sealing the cold out with a soft puff of air. For a moment, the silence inside felt almost sacred, like stepping into a forgotten part of the world. The scent of moss, old soil, and faint rosemary drowsed the air. I slipped between the rows of overgrown vines and little clay pots, while the soft winter light spilled through the glass in grey ribbons.
I reached the small round table hidden at the back, nearly swallowed by ivy, and let myself sink into the floral pillow of the rusted iron chair. Laying the note Hudson gave me over the table, I turned it once, twice, but it remained blank. Then, I held it up into the soft light. Nothing. No ink. No message. Just a whisper of parchment that sat heavy between my fingers.
Read it when you feel safe.That’s what he said. I looked around, taking in the army of plants. What could be safer than this?
Maybe he forgot to write it…but he doesn’t seem the type.
I shifted on the chair as another idea bloomed in my head. I read about inks that only revealed themselves through certain chemical reactions—oxidation-reduction or heat. I lookedaround, searching for anything that I could use to try out my theory?—
“Elodie.”
The air stilled, and even the leaves of the plants seemed to stiffen. I set the paper down onto the table, my eyes not leaving my mum. She stood a few paces away, cold winter light curling around her. She looked almost whole this time, her eyes gleaming with the same soft green as mine.
I stood, the chair scraping back. She tilted her head, and something in my chest collapsed in on itself. She was gone for so long; I wasn’t sure I would ever see her again.
“I have so many questions,” I breathed, the words falling off my lips with urgency.
She moved my way, weightless over the rough stone path, her expression gentle.
“I found your last diary,” I said. “About your friends. Hudson, Vitalie, Alex.”
Her head twitched a little at that, but she didn’t answer.
“Did you know that he died? Alex, I mean.”
Her brows creased, and she looked like she was debating what to answer. But I was too curious to wait.
“And Lilian—your mum…did you know she started adopting kids after you left?”
She turned slightly, brushing her hand across the leafy edge of a pot, as if admiring it.
“Mum?”
Still, she didn’t speak. Instead, she walked slowly toward one of the walls, her fingers barely skimming the glass as she peered through it. Her movements were fluid, a little too light, too much like a memory.
I swallowed hard. “Can you hear me?”
