Prologue

Prologue

FOUR YEARS AGO

“Oh, heavens!” Lady Hindport exclaimed worriedly as she peered out the drawing room window. Rain lashed against the glass, blurring the world outside into a swirling grey mass. “It is absolutely pouring.”

Genevieve, her eldest daughter, barely spared a glance for the tempest raging beyond the windowpane.

“It is merely a bit of rain, Mother,” she declared, her voice ringing out like a silver bell in the dimly lit room. “We must hurry, or we shall miss the opening!”

A flicker of a smile graced Lady Hindport’s lips. “It may be wiser to wait until the storm dies down, Genevieve.”

“But this is the first ball of the Season,” Genevieve persisted, her eyes lighting up as she spoke. “Besides, Rosaline and Sophia are awaiting our signal so that we can arrive together! If we delay, that will also cause them to be late. I would hate to disappoint them after promising them that we would arrive together.”

“Oh, please, Mama!” Her younger sister, Mary, clasped her hands together pleadingly, her eyes wide. “The rain only adds to the excitement!”

“And I am most eager to show off my new gown,” chimed in Emma, Mary’s twin, doing a little twirl, the pale pink silk of her dress swirling around her.

Lady Hindport sighed, her gaze drifting to the dark sky beyond the window. “Very well, let us wait for your father. He should be downstairs at any moment.”

Just then, the sound of heavy footsteps echoed down the hallway. The door swung open, and Lord Hindport strode into the drawing room, fully dressed for the evening, a triumphant smile playing on his lips.

“I hear my girls are ready for the night! What is this talk of rain, my dear Eleanor? We are not made of sugar. We shall endure.”

“Mama worries about the storm, but I am sure it will stop as soon as we are on our way,” Genevieve said, her voice lilting.

Her father chuckled. “Then why are we delaying? After all, we have a ball to attend!”

The girls eagerly grabbed their cloaks and hurried towards the carriage, their laughter drowned out by the drumming rain.

Lord Hindport helped Lady Hindport inside, and they all bundled up in the carriage, the familiar smell of leather and varnish wrapping around them like a warm embrace.

The rain pounded down relentlessly on the roof of their carriage, the sound becoming a steady roar.

“See?” Genevieve said, peering out at the rain-drenched streets. “It merely adds to the adventure!”

Mary looked out with wide eyes, her fingers clutching Genevieve’s arm. “It… it is so dark. Do you truly believe that the storm will cease soon?”

Genevieve squeezed her sister’s hand reassuringly. “Of course!”

The carriage moved forward, passing shadowed mansions with candlelit windows that flickered in the encroaching darkness.

“Oh, look! There is Rosaline’s carriage,” Genevieve exclaimed, spotting it through the downpour. “They must have seen us. Sophia’s carriage must be close behind.”

“Hold tight, girls!” their father called, turning his head towards them. “We shall arrive at the party shortly!”

The horses galloped along the rain-slicked cobblestone street as shadows danced in the flickering streetlights, extending ghostly fingers towards the carriage. The sound of the rain grew deafening, a wild symphony that swallowed the girls’ voices and laughter.

Lord Hindport furrowed his brow. He could barely make out the path.

“Look at the trees!” Emma pointed out the window, staring at the dark shapes thrashing in the wind.

“It is from the force of the squall,” Genevieve replied as her pulse quickened. “How much longer, Papa?”

“Only a little longer,” Lord Hindport assured her distractedly, but his gaze was locked onto the impenetrable, seething mass that lay ahead of them.

Lady Hindport gripped Mary’s shoulder tightly, causing her to wince in discomfort.

A sudden flash of lightning illuminated their faces, revealing the collective apprehension in their eyes. A deafening crack of thunder shook the air. Genevieve’s heart raced as she looked at her father, whose face had turned ghostly pale.

“We should turn back!” he bellowed over the cacophony.

The carriage lurched violently to the right, one wheel plunging into a deep rut hidden by the rising water. Muddy water sprayed across the windows as the horses whinnied in terror.

“Father!” Genevieve screamed, her voice raw with panic.

The carriage swerved, now lurching dangerously to the left as the driver struggled to steady the horses. The frantic whinnying of the horses pierced the air, drowning out the echoes of their gasping breaths.

Suddenly, in a heart-stopping moment that became suspended in time, a deafening crash sounded as the carriage overturned and they were pitched into the roiling, water-filled ditch.

The air was knocked out of Genevieve’s lungs as a crushing weight pressed against her chest. Her legs were pinned to the carriage wall, and her head spun as it hit the wooden rail.

The rain fell unmercifully, a relentless torrent mingling with the chaotic sounds of splintering wood and their screams of pain and fear.

“Mama!” she shrieked, reaching one hand out into the pitch blackness as the metallic taste of blood coated her mouth.

And then, everything went black and silent.

Two Years Later

“At last, I am unburdening myself from you, Genevieve.” Her uncle’s voice was as cold as the marble pillars of the church behind them.

He adjusted his gloves with deliberate care, his eyes scanning her as if she were a piece of wares finally sold off.

“Now, see to it that you don’t disgrace me any further—or yourself.”

Genevieve’s hands trembled at her sides, but she clasped them tightly to steady herself.

“I won’t, Uncle Peregrine,” she murmured, her voice steady, though her nails bit into her palms.

Her uncle scoffed, his lip curling in disdain. “You always claim that, yet disaster clings to you like a leech. How often have you shown yourself capable of nothing but calamity?” He shook his head, his words dripping with venom. “A complete burden. That’s what you’ve been, Genevieve. A suffocating weight, dragging me down into disrepute.”

Genevieve lowered her gaze to the ground as the sting of his words burned within her chest.

Lord Hindport—the title her uncle inherited after her father’s death—took a step closer, his voice dropping to a low hiss. “I cannot tell you the relief I feel at washing my hands of you. Your new husband can bear the weight of your ineptitudes now, though I have no doubt you’ll find a way to muck that up too.”

Genevieve said nothing, shielding herself in silence. She wanted to retort, to shout that she was better than the cruel picture he painted, but years under his thumb had taught her the futility of such efforts. Instead, she dipped her head in an obedient nod, a gesture that only seemed to stoke his ire further.

“Get into the carriage,” he snapped, his patience wearing thin. “Go and prove me wrong, if you can.”

Genevieve turned on her heel and ascended the steps to the waiting carriage without a word, her skirts rustling faintly as she moved. Her heart pounded in her chest, but she forced herself to breathe evenly.

This was the last time she would endure his insults.

The thought should have brought her comfort, but as she climbed into the carriage and settled across from her husband, an unsettling feeling crept over her.

Lord Mirfield’s complexion was ashen, beads of sweat clinging to his brow despite the cool spring air.

His half-closed eyes darted to hers briefly, filled with something she couldn’t name. Then, he looked away, his lips pressed together into a thin, bloodless line.

Genevieve studied him quietly, her unease growing. His complexion was almost ashen, and he seemed unable to meet her gaze for more than a fleeting moment.

“Are you unwell, My Lord?” she asked, her voice soft but insistent.

Lord Mirfield flinched at her words, his fingers tightening around the polished cane he held.

“I am fine,” he muttered, gripping his cane tighter, though the tremor in his voice said otherwise.

“We’re all done, My Lady,” Lily, her new lady’s maid, said softly, stepping back as she finished arranging Genevieve’s hair.

Genevieve stared into the small hand mirror, the silver frame cool against her fingertips. Her reflection felt foreign to her—her blue eyes red-rimmed, her lips pressed tightly together.

She tilted the mirror slightly, hoping a different angle might soften the anguish written all over her face.

It didn’t.

“Pardon me, My Lady, but you seem rather sad for your happiest day,” her maid noted, breaking the silence.

“Are you married, Lily?” Genevieve asked, her voice flat as she focused on her weary gaze.

The maid, a petite woman with a gentle demeanor, paused while she was adjusting the folds of Genevieve’s nightgown.

“No, My Lady,” she replied politely, smoothing the fabric over Genevieve’s shoulders.

“I see,” Genevieve muttered, her voice brittle.

Lily furrowed her brow as she picked up a silver brush from the vanity. “What is the matter, My Lady? You are newly married to a lord—a fine match, by all accounts. Many would envy your position.”

Genevieve met the maid’s reflection in the mirror. “I suppose so. Yet, I cannot help but feel trapped.”

She set the mirror down on the vanity with a soft clink, her gaze fixed on the polished wooden surface.

Lily hesitated. “Trapped? But, My Lady, surely you must feel some joy on this day. You have a husband now, and tonight, you will consummate your marriage. That is a blessing.”

Genevieve gulped.

“My Lady?” the maid said after a long pause.

Genevieve turned around in her stool and faced Lily. “I… I do not wish to consummate this marriage,” she murmured, her voice breaking slightly, though her gaze remained steady.

“My Lady… you cannot mean that,” the maid whispered in shock and disbelief.

“Is it so horrifying?” Genevieve replied, her voice quieter. “Not to wish to share a bed with a man I do not love?”

Lily opened her mouth as if to argue, but no words came.

After a moment, she managed to ask, “Then why marry him, My Lady?”

Genevieve’s expression hardened, her gaze flickering to the floor. “I was given no choice. My uncle made certain of that. He… he wanted me off his hands, out of his life. I was… My reputation… It was a burden to him.”

Lily frowned, her features softening. “My Lady, I⁠—”

A piercing scream shattered the tense quiet, echoing from the room next door.

Genevieve shot to her feet, the color draining from her face. “That’s… his room,” she whispered, her hand clutching the edge of the vanity as her heart slammed against her ribs.

Without another word, she rushed into the hallway, Lily trailing close behind.

She pushed open the door to her husband’s chambers and froze.

Lord Mirfield’s lifeless body was sprawled on the floor.

A hoarse whisper tore out of Genevieve’s throat. “Oh God.”

His face was ghostly pale, his lips slightly parted as though caught mid-breath in a final plea.

The air was thick with the sickly-sweet scent of laudanum, the glass bottles lying carelessly around him.

Genevieve was petrified, her breath trapped in her chest. The room spun around her as her eyes fixed on the lifeless form of her husband.

The housekeeper rushed in, her eyes immediately landing on the scene before her. She staggered back, her expression shifting from shock to fury as her gaze settled on Genevieve.

“Witch!” she shrieked, trembling as she pointed at Genevieve. “You cursed him—you cursed us all!”