Chapter Twenty-Nine: The Quiet Unraveling
They searched the house room by room.
Isabelle led the way with a candle in hand, the golden light flickering across the wood-paneled walls of the main hall. Lucien moved beside her like a shadow—silent, alert, every sense tuned to the shifting air.
Lydia trailed behind them, clutching a shawl tightly around her shoulders. Her face was pale, her eyes too wide.
Only five days since she rode out under cover of night, the letter from Lucien burning in her pocket and the knowledge of her mother’s journal fresh in her mind.
And yet, Greystone House already felt different, Elen though the parlor was untouched.
The study still smelled of pipe smoke and old ink.
But in the music room—the temperature dropped.
Lucien froze.
“Do you smell that?” he whispered.
Isabelle did.
Roses.
But not fresh.
Wilted. Blackened. Like they had died and been preserved in ash.
Near the pianoforte, a single stem sat on the windowsill. Its petals were as dark as night, veins traced in silver.
Lucien touched the edge. It crumbled to dust.
“He was here,” he said. “He doesn’t need doors to enter anymore. The veil is too thin.”
They moved to the upper floor.
The guest room was fine. Aunt Rosalind’s chamber was locked.
And then—Lydia’s room.
As soon as Isabelle pushed open the door, the candle flickered violently.
The air inside hummed.
The curtains fluttered though the window was closed. The mirror across from the bed had cracked—not shattered, just a thin fissure from corner to corner, like a web.
And on Lydia’s nightstand—the locket.
Not Isabelle’s.
Another.
Identical in design… but glowing faintly green.
Lydia stepped forward slowly.
“I’ve never seen that before,” she whispered.
“It’s yours,” Isabelle said.
Lucien nodded. “It found you. That’s fae-blood metal. It binds only to the rightful heir.”
Lydia reached for it—and the moment her fingers closed around it, the lights flickered out.
The house groaned.
And somewhere below them…
The front door creaked open.
Lucien moved instantly, stepping in front of both girls.
“Stay behind me,” he said.
But Isabelle already knew.
Duval had returned.
And he was no longer asking questions.