24 - So close
**Amelia**
After reading the last letter I received from my Mother, I became even more agitated and worried for Lysa. It had been a month and four days now, and still no sign of her. I feared that my Mother’s health would deteriorate with her constant worrying.
So, I decided to seek information about the mark mother told me about. I already had the basic information, so I knew what to look for.
The study was quiet, the faint scent of old paper and ink hanging in the air. My husband’s mini-library was impressive, a collection of tomes and journals spanning centuries, most of which I doubted he’d ever actually read. That was fine with me. It gave me plenty of room to search.
I crept inside, closing the door behind me as softly as I could. The late hour was in my favour; he was already in bed, and the servants had retired for the night. Still, I moved quickly, my heart pounding with every step.
Andrew had never been interested in my life, or me and now more than ever, I’d like to keep it that way.
The walls seemed to close in on me as I navigated the not-too-familiar space. His study was vast, with towering shelves of books that stretched up to the ceiling.
The polished wood of the shelves gleamed in the dim light from the candle I had carefully lit before entering. It cast long shadows across the room, making it feel even more secretive, more foreboding.
The shelves loomed over me; their dark wood polished to a gleam. I ran my fingers along the spines of the books, scanning their titles for anything that might hold a clue. “History of the Western Kingdom,” “Legends of the Ancient Isles,” “Herbs and Remedies of the Forgotten Age.”
Nothing.
Frustration bubbled in my chest, but I forced myself to stay calm. I couldn’t afford to rush. Somewhere in this room was the answer I needed—I was sure of it.
If I could just find the right book, the right piece of information, (even if it only sheds a little light). I might finally understand the truth of what Lysandra’s mark meant.
I moved to the lower shelves, crouching down to inspect the rows of dusty volumes. The air smelled faintly of mildew and leather, the scent of time pressing in on me. I hated the feeling, the weight of things long forgotten. But I had no choice but to dig through it all. I couldn’t go to my husband, because I didn’t want to raise his suspicion.
Keeping Lysa’s mark from everyone was what was best. I just hoped the broken vase from that day was from a clumsy rat and not a human.
My eyes lit up when I caught a glimpse of something. It was there, tucked between two leather-bound books, that I found it: a journal.
It didn’t look like much at first glance—just a small, worn book with a cracked spine and faded lettering. But something about it drew me in. I pulled it free, brushing off a layer of dust as I opened the cover.
The pages were yellowed with age, the paper thin and fragile. The handwriting inside was jagged and uneven, as though the author had been in a hurry or under duress. The first page was filled with cryptic phrases:
“The Chosen shall bear the mark...”
“Bound by blood and flame...”
“The clans will rise again...”
My breath caught in my throat as I read the words, a chill running down my spine. This was it. This was what I’d been looking for.
I turned the page, eager to read more, when the sound of footsteps froze me in place.
No.
I snapped the journal shut, my heart hammering as I scrambled to my feet. The door creaked open, and my husband stepped inside, his eyes narrowing as they landed on me.
“Amelia,” he said, his voice calm but questioning. “What are you doing in here?”
“Nothing,” I said quickly, tucking the journal behind my back. My voice came out too fast, too strained. I had to control myself. I had to stay calm.
“I couldn’t sleep, so I thought I’d find something to read.”
He raised an eyebrow, his gaze flicking to the shelves and then back to me. “In my study?”
“I didn’t think you’d mind,” I said, forcing a smile.
His expression remained unreadable, but his eyes seemed to search me more carefully now. I felt the weight of his gaze, as though he could see through me, see the secrets I was hiding.
“You know I prefer you not to disturb my things,” he said, his tone light but firm.
“Of course,” I said, taking a step back. My heel caught on the edge of the rug, and I stumbled slightly, nearly dropping the journal.
His eyes narrowed, and for a moment, I thought he might say something. But then he sighed, running a hand through his hair. “It’s late. You should go to bed.”
I nodded quickly, clutching the journal tighter as I moved towards the door. But as I passed the shelves, I hesitated.
I couldn’t take the journal with me—not now, not with him watching.
As casually as I could, I bent down to adjust my shoe, slipping the journal beneath the lowest shelf. It was a gamble, but it was the best I could do. If I took it now, he would know. He would suspect. I had to be careful.
“Goodnight,” I said, straightening up and heading for the door.
He didn’t respond, his attention already turning to his desk. I slipped out of the room, my heart still racing as I made my way down the hall. My pulse was loud in my ears, each beat reminding me of the risk I had just taken. I hadn’t even had time to read more than the first few pages. But I had seen enough.
I didn’t know what the journal would reveal, but I would be back to find out. I couldn’t stop now. Not when I was so close. Lysandra’s mark was more than just a symbol—it was the key to something much larger, something far more dangerous than I could have ever imagined.
As I walked down the hall, the weight of the journal still fresh in my mind, I realized something. I wasn’t just searching for answers for Lysandra. I was searching for the truth. The truth about our family, about what we had been involved in, if there was anything hidden at all.
It felt like I was going deeper into something I should be running away from, but there was no turning back now.