Page 6 of Porcelain Grave

As we reach the edge of the ride, Rhys leans in, his breath hot against my ear. "Every horse carries someone who never got off," he murmurs.

I shiver, a cold jolt of terror shooting down my spine. "What is that supposed to mean?"

He doesn't explain. He just chuckles, a low vibration in his chest, and helps me up onto one of the creatures. He chooses a stallion with a crown of antlers and eyes that look like they've seen the end of the world. The black wood is cold beneath me, the saddle worn and smelling of old leather and something metallic.

Rhys climbs up behind me, his large frame enveloping me completely. He wraps his arms around my waist, pulling me flush against his chest. I can feel the hard line of his body, the steady, rhythmic thrum of his heart beating against my back. I instinctively grip the cold brass pole in front of me, my knuckles white.

Then, the ride starts to move.

It doesn't start with a jerk; it's a slow, sickening glide. The organ music swells, the notes becoming distorted and dissonant, echoing through the empty plaza. As the carousel picks up speed, the world begins to blur. The gas lamps become streaks of yellow light, and the skeletal horses around us seem to gallop in a slow-motion race toward nowhere. The movement is hypnotic, a swirling vortex of black wood and porcelain screams.

It’s fucking terrifying. I feel like the ride is trying to throw me off, or perhaps pull me into the floor. But Rhys only holds me tighter, his grip bordering on bruising.

He begins to caress me, his hands sliding up from my waist to cup my breasts through the heavy silk of my gown. He leans forward, burying his face in the crook of my neck, his lips pressing hot, wet kisses against my skin.

"You're so fucking beautiful, Ophelia," he whispers, his voice a possessive growl that vibrates through my entire being. "My perfect, broken little doll. You have no idea how much I love you. How much I fucking crave every single breath you take."

I should be screaming. I should be fighting to get off this haunted piece of shit. But as the music reaches a crescendo and the world spins into a blur of gothic horror, I feel something inside me snap. The terror blends with the intensity of his obsession, and suddenly, the fear doesn't feel like a warning—it feels like an invitation.

I lean back into him, my head resting on his shoulder, my eyes closing as I let the dizziness take over. For the first time in what feels like an eternity, the noise in my head goes silent. The image of the rusted box in the attic, the smell of decay, the crushing weight of my family's ghosts—it all just... vanishes.

In the circle of his arms, amidst the screams of porcelain horses and the moan of a dead organ, I feel safe. It's a psychotic kind of safety, a sanctuary built on control and madness, but I don't fucking care. I melt into him, my body turning to liquid, forgetting the pain and the trauma. In this moment, there is only the smell of his cologne, the heat of his skin, and the terrifying, absolute certainty that I belong to him.

Just as I think the ride is winding down, the world doesn't stop spinning—it starts to lift. I gasp, clutching the brass pole as a low, mechanical groan vibrates through the black wood of the stallion. The carousel isn't just spinning anymore; it’s rising. We’re gliding upward on some hidden, rusted machinery, lifting us several bloody metres above the plaza.

I look over the edge, my stomach doing a slow roll. Below us, the Midnight Menagerie looks like a fever dream draped in fog. The gas lamps are just smudges of sickly yellow light piercing through the grey mist, and the carnival layout looks like a sprawling, gothic circuit board of shadows. The tents are dark peaks, the paths are winding veins of cobblestone, and beyond the perimeter, I can smell the salt and brine of the North Sea, somewhere out there in the blackness of Whitby. It’s hauntingly quiet from up here, like we’ve ascended to a place where the living aren't allowed.

As we reach the apex, the carousel comes to a smooth, clicking halt. Behind us, as if summoned by the movement, a spiral staircase of wrought iron and obsidian stone appears, winding upward into the dark.

Rhys doesn't say a word. He just helps me off the horse, his hand firm on my waist, and leads me up the stairs. My heart is hammering against my ribs, not from fear this time, but from the sheer, suffocating intensity of him.

He leads me through a heavy, ornate gate. Above the arch, etched in weathered stone, are the words: The Victorian Mourning Gardens.

I stop dead. "You've got to be fucking kidding me," I whisper.

It’s a moonlit sanctuary of grief and beauty. This isn't a place for picnics and laughter; it's a garden designed for the broken. White marble angels, stained grey and green by decades of rain and age, stand guard over the paths. There are statues of veiled women, their stone faces frozen in eternal sorrow, and empty iron benches where people once sat to mourn the dead in silence.

The flora is just as dark. Moon gates covered in thick, choking ivy lead to clusters of white lilies, foxgloves, and hellebores—flowers of poison and funerals. And then there are the dahlias, a red so deep they look black under the moonlight.

I walk through the garden, my dress brushing against the damp grass, feeling a strange, heavy peace. It’s the first time in my life that the atmosphere matches the wreckage inside my chest. We stop under a massive weeping willow, its long, sweeping branches hanging down like a curtain of living lace, shielding us from the rest of the world. The leaves shiver in the breeze, sounding like a thousand whispered secrets.

I turn to him, frowning. "Why the fuck have you never brought me here before, Rhys?"

He looks at me, his eyes dark and predatory, yet softened by something that almost looks like tenderness. "I was working on your phobia, Ophelia. Your fear of your own reflection had to come first. The beauty of the carnival—and this place—would have been lost if you were still fighting the mirror."

I look away, my throat tightening. "I don't know if my mind is actually healed, Rhys. Not after... after seeing them. My sisters. My mother. Knowing I have her exact fucking face... it's like looking at a ghost every time I see myself."

Before I can spiral, he reaches out and cups my face in his large hands, forcing me to look up. His thumbs brush over my cheekbones. "You are looking me in the eye right now, Ophelia. Something you would have never done before. You aren't looking at a reflection; you're looking at me."

He lets go and reaches into the inner pocket of his coat, pulling out a small, black velvet box. My breath hitches. For a split second, I think ring, but Rhys isn't a 'diamond and a chapel' kind of man.

He snaps the box open. Inside, resting on a bed of silk, is a black halo.

It’s not some saintly, golden circle. It’s gothic, elegant, and menacing. Crafted from a dark, shimmering metal, it features a delicate skull entwined with black roses, mirroring the necklace he gave me. It’s a piece of art and a piece of madness all in one.

He lifts it out and gently settles it atop my head, his fingers lingering against my hair.

"You were never meant to wear white," he murmurs, his voice a low, possessive rumble.