I move through the garden, my breath shallow, my steps slow, heavy, but purposeful. I find the Monster in the library, its long fingers tracing the spines of the books.
I feel my voice catch in my throat as I force the words out.
“You did something to him, didn’t you?”
The Monster’s fingers still for a moment. Then it raises its gaze slowly, its eyes gold, unfathomable. It’s clear as day, looking at the rage and grief sitting on my chest.
“What do you mean, Agnes?” The Monster’s voice is a low hum, almost gentle, but there’s a thickness to it that I can’t ignore.
I hold the brooch tighter, the cool metal biting into my palm.
“His brooch,” I say, my voice tight. “I found it at the altar.”
For a moment, the Monster simply stands there, its presence filling the space like a shadow that refuses to leave. I can feel the weight of its gaze on me, its judgement settling like dust in the air.
“Some threads are meant to be cut, Agnes. Some people—some souls—are meant to stay in the dark,” the Monster says, its voice low and filled with something I can’t quite name.”
My pulse pounds in my ears. The Monster’s words are like poison, slipping into the cracks of my heart and twisting it, making it bleed even more.
“Why?” I whisper.
It sighs, then trails a long finger along the edge of the nearest shelf.
“You have your path, Agnes,” it says. “It was always meant to be this way. There is no place for him in your world.”
“Eli made me believe that perhaps there was more to the world than just fate and the endless weave of magic,” I say, my voice low. “But it’s exactly that. Poisonous and endless.”
The Monster’s eyes narrow, something flickering in them—anger, regret, or something entirely different. “You don’t understand. The threads of fate are not kind. They pull and tear, leaving nothing but destruction in their wake. I’m protecting you. You can’t see it, but I can. It’s better this way. For you.”
I stand there, frozen, the brooch in my hand as heavy as lead.
“I will never forgive you,” I say. My voice is so low I’m not even sure it’s mine. “For taking him from me. And I’ll never forget. Not him. And not you.” I storm out of the room before the tears can fall. Not only because I know they will never stop—but because I will never trust anyone else to see them.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
ELODIE
The roar of Declan’s engine echoed long after the red Ferrari vanished down the drive, under the arbour of trees. I stood for a moment beneath the moon-soaked archway of Thornhill, the chill clinging to my skin like a second coat.
Alistair was already waiting with the door open, his face as still as ever. He didn’t say a word as I passed him, but I felt his gaze press lightly against my back, like the brush of cobwebs. Inside, the manor was quiet. Not the comforting hush of rest, but a silence that listened.
I climbed the stairs slowly, each step a dull drumbeat of exhaustion. The weight of the night draped heavy over my shoulders, pressing into the hollow of my chest. Questions swirled like smoke—about Declan, about Varden, about Lilian and my mum, about the boy in the tunnels and the rotting sheep?—
I didn’t have the strength to chase them anymore.
All I wanted was the warm solitude of my room. A bath. A blanket. Maybe silence that wasn’t quite so sharp.
But when I opened my bedroom door, Myra sat on the edge of the bed with a book on her lap, her fingers tangling between the pages and her face hidden by a curtain of caramel coloured curls. The quiet I had longed for vanished. As if sensing my arrival, she looked up at me, blinked once, then closed the book with a soft snap, her eyes wide like a scared fawn’s.
“I thought you’d be back later,” she said, as though it would excuse her presence. I lingered in the doorway, my hand still on the knob, unsure whether to enter or turn back around. “I’m sorry,” she added more quietly, standing with the faint flicker of guilt in her eyes. “I was only curious about the book. I didn’t touch anything else.”
I stepped into the room but remained silent. It felt wrong, violating, finding her there.
“I only read the tales,” she went on. “The one with the death—it was a bit sharp, wasn’t it? Sudden, I mean.”
I loosened my scarf from around my neck, my fingers stiff as I draped it over the chair at my desk. I remembered the one she was talking about. Where the Girl Inked with Magic had taken fate into her own hands and killed the Monster after it had viciously killed the man she loved. Another tale that reminded me of Agnes’ story in theTome of Fates.
“I think it was real,” I said at last, my voice thin. “Her revenge felt honest.”
