A guttural gasp tore from Agnes. Her teacup rattled against its saucer, threatening to spill over the scarred oak table. “Are you out of your mind, Elara? Are you truly quite mad?”
Agnes pushed back from the table, her chair scraping loudly on the flagstones. Elara flinched, retreating a step, putting the distance of the hearth between them. A log settled in the grate, a low whisper of ash.
“He remembered nothing, Agnes. Lost to himself entirely!” Elara’s voice hitched, a raw edge of panic. “He grasped me the moment his eyes opened. A grip like iron. I was terrified. What could I do? I had to lie, or he would have… he would have just killed me!”
Agnes rubbed a hand over her worn face, her expression a mix of disbelief and weary anger. “You cannot keep such a lie, Elara. Not here. Not in Blackwood Manor, where shadows have teeth.”
“You don’t understand, Agnes. You didn’t see him.” Elara’s breath hitched again, memory’s cold grip tightening. “The man was a ghost, a waking nightmare. He came from the moor, half-dead, but with eyes that could freeze blood. What if he had dragged me out to the peat bogs? What if he buried me alive, just for seeing him?” She shuddered, a tremor running through her thin frame.
Agnes watched her, eyes wide, a sudden pallor leaching the color from her cheeks. “My heavens…”
“I had to concoct something. Anything. Especially with someone… like him.” Elara hugged herself, shoulders hunched. Her gaze drifted to the high, leaded window, where mist pressed against the panes like a ghostly face.
She looked small, utterly broken. But a flicker of something stubborn, defiant, ignited in her tear-streaked eyes. Agnes knew Elara. Knew her fierce grip on life, her quiet determination. Elara had always carved her own path, struggled for her peace in the solitude of the manor.
Losing control, being controlled by this… intrusion, it was her deepest terror.
“What if he finds out?” Elara whispered, the question a ragged breath. “About everything? The truth of his presence here, the lie?” She wrung her hands. “I just need to find out who he is. Why he came to Blackwood. Who put him here.”
Agnes frowned, the pragmatist in her struggling with Elara’s fractured logic. “Then what?”
“Then everything returns to normal.” Elara spoke as if convincing herself, her voice thin as a thread. She looked like a specter, her dark hair a wild tangle around her face. That night, after she found him, after she brought him in, every ounce of her focus had been on survival. On keeping the manor a secret, keeping *herself* a secret. The impact of his arrival, the desperate fight for his life, had pushed her to the brink.
Her life had spun out of her grasp. Elara didn’t want to be a puppet. She would claw her way back to autonomy, no matter the cost, no matter the danger.
He could have questioned everything. Harmed her. The lie, the pretense of intimacy, was a fragile leash. It made him dependent, trusting. It made him believe she was someone he couldn’t hurt, someone he needed. Someone he was safe with.
Agnes shook her head, a deep sigh escaping her lips. The whole arrangement was a house of cards. Elara knew nothing of how quickly bonds could warp, how precarious such a deception could be. And with a man like this? A man who emerged from the moors, carrying the scent of blood and secrets?
“I can’t. I simply cannot be involved in this madness, Elara.” Agnes’s voice was firm, though laced with fear for her friend.
“Please!” Elara’s plea tore at the silence. “Please, Agnes. Just pretend we’re… old friends. That you know about Elias, about us. That you’ve visited before. Just… corroborate my story.”
Agnes pressed her fingers to her temples. She had seen enough melodrama to last a lifetime. This man’s situation felt like a gaping wound in the natural order. A man of apparent means, perhaps even power, found on *her* friend’s doorstep, deep in the isolation of Blackwood Manor. Why not a proper hospital? Why here, in this forgotten place?
Where were his family, his people? This whole affair reeked of something far more sinister than a simple accident.
“Elara?” A voice, low and resonant, drifted down from the upper landing. Agnes’s eyes flew open, wide with alarm.
It was a voice that commanded attention, a silken cord woven with steel. Agnes turned slowly, her heart thudding against her ribs. Elias stood at the top of the grand staircase, a solitary figure against the gloom of the upper floors. He began to descend, each step deliberate.
“Greetings, Elias,” Agnes managed, her voice a brittle whisper, forcing a strained smile.
---
“Such… peculiar architecture.” Elias’s gaze swept across the great hall, taking in the shadowed alcoves, the cobwebbed portraits, the peculiar arrangement of dried herbs hanging near the kitchen entrance. “I’ve never encountered a place quite like it.”
Elara clutched her hands tightly, rocking almost imperceptibly on the worn rug. Every nerve ending screamed. Agnes, beside her, watched Elias with an intensity that bordered on clinical. Decades of observing people, of navigating the complex currents of human interaction, had honed her judgment. She saw the set of his jaw, the almost imperceptible flicker in his eyes. A silent assessment.
Could this truly be the same man Elara described? A potential killer, a monster? He held himself with an undeniable authority, his presence filling the vast space. Handsome, in a stark, unsettling way, with finely sculpted features. She sought a flaw, a tell, something to confirm Elara’s terror.
His expression was cold, yes, but not cruel. His eyes, though deep-set and unreadable, held a strange, almost soft quality. He certainly didn’t look like a murderer. There was an elegance about him, a subtle aura of privilege. He was born to wealth, she was certain. It would be a disservice to him, to the narrative unfolding, if he were merely a common brute. At the very least, he must wield significant power.
“Agnes,” Elias inclined his head slightly, a gesture of unexpected politeness. His mouth seemed stiff, as if unused to such a courtesy. “May I join you? I would sit closer to Elara.”
Agnes stiffened, a silent jolt running through her. She was rarely caught off guard, maintaining an almost preternatural calm in crisis. But this quiet, direct request unsettled her. Elara froze, her rocking stilled. When neither moved, Elias looked between them, a question forming in his gaze.
Elara scrambled to the far end of the sofa, making space. He moved gracefully, settling beside her, his proximity an unnerving warmth. His shoulders relaxed, a subtle easing of tension in his posture. Relief bloomed in his eyes, a stark, unguarded emotion.
“Elias,” Elara began, her voice strained, “Agnes isn’t… she’s not family. She’s an old friend. She’s known me for years. I think she just got a bit… familiar, in her greeting.”
“Why do you use my full name?” he asked, his voice soft, almost a murmur against the vast quiet of the hall.
“What?” Elara blinked.
“I want you to feel comfortable with me, too.”
Elara was speechless, caught in the sudden intimacy of his words. Agnes rubbed her forehead, a weary gesture. He remembered nothing, true. His focus, absolute and unwavering, remained entirely on Elara.