Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

M ax sat at the dining room table, lost in thought, his fingers tracing the intricate carvings on the old oak surface. The flickering candlelight cast dancing shadows across the room, adding an ethereal quality to the atmosphere. He couldn't shake the feeling of vulnerability that had opened within him after he had revealed his secret to Amelia. Now he wondered what consequences might arise.

You did the right thing. Finally.

What if she could read his mind? That was a frightening thought.

When he finally opened his eyes, sitting across from him was Miss Lennox, having snuck into the dining room as silently as a spirit herself. Her green gaze, soft and understanding, met his.

As much as he knew he should likely be asking her to leave his manor so that he could hire someone far more suitable who would simply do as he or she was told without causing mayhem, Max couldn't help but be drawn to her.

At the moment, he was distracted by the way her long dark hair framed her face like a halo in the dim light, not pinned up around her head like the style of the day.

Despite the unease swirling within him, she had a comforting presence that soothed his restless soul.

In that fleeting moment, Max felt a sense of connection that transcended words.

It was as if they were two halves of a whole, bound by fate and entwined in a spell woven by unseen forces.

The very last thing a man like him, who preferred to remain unencumbered and alone, desired.

The timeworn walls of the manor seemed to hold their breath as they waited for one of them to speak. Amelia's eyes mirrored the flickering candle flames that danced with a life of their own.

Max’s eyes were drawn to the delicate curve of her lips, slightly parted as if on the brink of revealing a secret. His hand moved involuntarily across the table, reaching toward hers as the air around them crackled with an unspoken tension.

Just as their fingertips tentatively touched, a sudden chill swept through the room, extinguishing the candle flames in a swift gust of wind. Shadows lengthened and twisted, contorting into eerie shapes that seemed to whisper forgotten secrets. Max’s hand gripped Amelia’s as the temperature dropped drastically, casting a frosty veil over what had promised to be a comfortable dinner just seconds earlier.

Amelia's gaze darted around the room, her eyes curious and concerned. Max steeled himself, ready to provide her with all the protection he was able to conjure.

As the candle flames flickered back to life with an otherworldly blueish glow, a low murmur filled the air. It was a haunting melody, ancient and sorrowful, resonating with a power that defied logic as shadows swirled around them like wraiths, sending a chill up Max’s spine.

“Has it ever been like this before?” Amelia whispered, reminding him that they had not spoken since she had appeared at dinner, even though it seemed their emotions were intricately intertwined.

“Yes,” he muttered. “The night before my mother died.”

Amelia took a breath, her gaze flickering around the room.

They couldn’t let something like that happen again; that was for certain.

She had many questions, but they would have to wait.

While she could admit that she had become rather invested in the Earl of Blackmore and this curse that had been laid upon his family, she wasn’t about to lose her life over it.

Fortunately, she had a few weapons of her own.

She stood so quickly that her chair tumbled backward.

“Stay here,” she said before running out of the room as quickly as she could, sensing the earl’s questioning gaze upon her.

But all he had to do was keep himself safe long enough that she could do what she needed. She thanked the stars above that she had mixed paints earlier that day while simultaneously bemoaning that she would have to redo it all to match the colors exactly.

But no matter.

She held her skirt out in front of her to fill it with a paintbrush and jars of paint before she ripped a sheet of canvas off the easel and ran back into the dining room, where she threw it all upon the table, which was still empty aside from their wine glasses.

It seemed that angry spirits prevented servants from carrying out their duties.

“What are you doing?” the earl called out as objects began to fly about the room. He ducked to prevent his own spoon from whacking him across the head.

“Just wait,” she said, lifting a finger. Realizing that the canvas would fly around the room if she used any inanimate objects, she lifted it and placed the corners in his hands. “Hold this,” she instructed.

He fixed her with a look of disbelief although he did as he was told while she dipped her brush into one of the pots before stroking it across the page.

She worked quickly, effortlessly, closing her eyes and allowing her hand to fly as she painted with her soul. It would not appear to be anything particularly worthwhile, but that was not the point of this – the point was to calm the spirits that surrounded them, namely that of Isolde.

She stepped back, placed the brush down, and with a whispered incantation, she lifted her palms and sent all of her intentions into the painting before stepping back, allowing it to come to life.

The earl dropped the canvas entirely when the lovers, wrapped in an embrace, began to float off the canvas and hover in the air between them, but it didn’t matter. Her work and its purpose was complete. In the middle of the dining room, the beautifully landscaped garden that Amelia had painted, complete with its vibrant flowers and lush greenery, sprang to life.

Amelia had been inspired by the meadow near where the earl had been working earlier today, and she could only hope that it was such a place Isolde might have remembered, especially in a time when it had been kept up to the standard it deserved. At the center stood the lovers, one as dark and as handsome as the current earl himself, the other with flaming red hair, albeit in carmine instead of vermillion, their love for one another evident in their gentle smiles and the tender way they held one another. Their figures were blurred, giving them an ethereal, almost ghostly quality, symbolizing their love that transcended time.

The wind that had battered the dining room began to subdue as the entire room became bathed in a soft, golden light, adding a warm, nostalgic glow to the scene that Amelia hoped was something akin to a memory.

She was so focused on the tableau coming to life before her, wondering if it had been enough, that she didn’t realize the earl had circled behind her until his hand touched her shoulder.

“You did it,” he whispered in awe. “You’ve calmed her.”

She blinked and looked around the room. The candles were lit, but not with the harsh flame of before. Instead, they had returned to their gentle orange glow, while all of the objects that had flown around the room were returned to their places as if nothing had ever happened. Amelia still sensed Isolde’s presence, but it was softer now, subdued.

“Thank goodness,” she whispered.

“I don’t know how you did it, but somehow you understood her pain and transformed it,” he said, his eyes still on her creation, apparently mesmerized.

“I was trying to remind her of the happy times she experienced with your grandfather before the betrayal,” she whispered, not wanting Isolde to hear and feel she had been manipulated. “I wanted to remind her of the love that had once filled her. It was what she said could be the key.”

“You were right,” he said, his hand still warm on her shoulder, his fingers inching closer to the bare skin of her neck.

“My lord?”

“Yes?” he said.

“I think I’m going to need more paint.”

Hours later, when their dinner was finally finished, Max found he couldn’t move from his place at the table. He could have spent all night sitting and watching Miss Lennox.

She was awe-inspiring.

He had doubted her abilities, as well as what she thought he was capable of wielding.

But her powers were breathtaking.

Her powers and her own understanding of how to use them. He wondered what else she could do but was honestly too afraid to ask.

“You’re scared of me now,” she ascertained, breaking the silence as she ran her fingers over her wine goblet, and he wished she was stroking his skin instead.

“I’m not scared of you,” he insisted but then paused. “I’m slightly scared of what you can do.”

She laughed softly. “I do not use my abilities for harm. Well… not too much harm.”

He eyed her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I have done things I am not proud of to survive.”

“Such as?”

“You will think less of me, my lord.”

“Just call me Max.”

“Max?”

“I think we have been through enough together to become familiar. I fear we will not have time for you to call out ‘my lord!’ during Isolde’s next attack.”

She chuckled.

“Very well. And my friends call me Amelia.”

“Amelia.” He liked the way her name rolled off his tongue. “I promise not to think less of you, no matter what you tell me. Friend .”

She scrutinized him before rendering him trustworthy enough to continue. “There have been times when I have used my powers to afford my rent.”

“How did you do so?”

“By painting things that convinced people to pay me money for them.”

“I would pay you a fortune for what you just did!” He paused. “If I still had a fortune.”

She smiled. “That is kind of you. But that is not entirely what I mean. I do not show most people my powers like I just did. I can also simply paint a picture and infuse it with emotion that passes to whoever is viewing it, causing them to part with money simply because they have suddenly discovered they want to.”

“Interesting.”

“I’m not proud of it.”

“We all do what we have to do sometimes.”

She tilted her head as she eyed him across the table, while some of the closeness that had been present before Isolde’s attack came creeping back between them.

“Do you say that from experience?”

He passed a hand over his face, trying to determine just how much to share with her.

In the end, he decided all of it. Why not, at this point?

“After my birth, which was apparently the one miraculous moment of my family’s lives, my mother was unable to carry another child. Then my mother died.”

“What happened?” Amelia asked quietly, sensing that he needed to speak of it; that, perhaps, he never had before.

“She fell from the balcony,” he whispered, the pain flashing across his face.

“Oh, Max, I’m so sorry,” she said, reaching out and taking his hand in hers.

He shook his head as though ridding himself of the emotion. “It was a long time ago. We don’t know if she was pushed or if it was an accident or what exactly happened. Then my father died as well – from an accident that I barely survived myself.”

“Is that how you got this?” she asked, tracing the scar that ran through his eyebrow.

“Yes,” he said. “Who knows where the bit of luck came from that I was thrown far enough to escape the crush of the carriage that took my father. After that, I did what I had to in order to survive. There was no money left behind. Every bit of it my family ever touched might as well have been set on fire the way it disappeared. I’ve gotten by through selling various estates, items, and land. There is no use investing or trying to have a solid crop. It all comes to naught.”

“There is nothing wrong with selling things that belong to you.”

“My ancestors might think differently.”

“Are you living for them or for you?”

He bowed his head, her question surprising him, for he had never thought of it quite like that before.

“Both, actually,” he said quietly. “I think I feel as though I owe them something.”

“Why? Because you are the only one still alive?”

He met her eyes. “Yes. That’s basically the way of it.”

“I see,” she said, flattening her palms upon the table as she stood, surprising him. “I have a suggestion, then.”

He nodded, desperate for any counsel – especially from her.

“Do that , then.”

“Do what?”

“ Live .”