Chapter 53

Thick clouds roll in from the distance, the color of a fresh bruise, swollen and festering. I take a seat on the lonely bench in the rooftop garden at the estate. Taking a page from Maxwell’s book, I decided to face my discomfort and finally venture up here. In the past, I’d avoided this place along with the rose garden and blamed it on random reasons—bad weather, a fear of heights, a heaviness in my chest.

It felt like there was a loss buried deep in my soul, a hole I hadn’t been able to fill until I met him. Considering Maxwell had avoided this place as well, perhaps he felt the same way.

I look at the wilted wildflowers and overgrown weeds, a rusted veranda barely standing. The forgotten rooftop garden is completely at odds with the well-kept grounds of the estate. This place appears frozen in time, a shrine for someone long having left this world.

But now, as I sit here, I get the distinct sensation I’ve been here before, a ghostly imprint I feel in the marrow of my bones, very much like the stirring of my heart when I first met Maxwell at the race. One look into his stormy eyes and I was instantly captivated.

I still can’t believe Maxwell apologized so publicly yesterday. The headlines today are all about him—his brave acknowledgment of his anxiety, the press clearly sensing they have a heroic figure on their hands. Any lingering doubts about our marriage have faded away—the articles painting a devoted husband utterly obsessed with his wife.

His public declaration of love, his plea for me to choose him.

He’s letting me decide this time.

He heard me .

I’m so proud of him, because I know it isn’t easy—braving the world and their scrutiny, facing his fears.

Putting it all out there…for me.

I heave out a sigh, relief mixing with heartache as I rub the phantom soreness in my chest. I miss him so much.

The girls asked me last night if I’d accept his apology, if I’d take him back. My immediate impulse was to say yes, to run to him and throw myself in his arms. But I needed to think things through, to let my emotions settle, because I knew if I were to give him back my heart and he shatters it, I’d never feel whole again.

Standing up, I walk to the edge of the roof and look down at the rose garden, the thorny bushes gnarly, the small, lifeless patch of soil still there at the edge.

I remember my dream, the desperation of running toward Silas or Maxwell, as their figures blur together, the crushing agony when I never reach him. And I realize I want to forgive him and repair our relationship, knowing that it won’t be a smooth journey ahead with his fears and anxiety.

But if he can be brave about it and take my hand, then so can I.

Mind made up, I breathe in the earthy scent carried by the blistering wind—the unmistakable smell of damp earth and thawing snow, cloying decay mixing with emerging life. I turn around and take a step toward the winding staircase when my eyes snag on something.

An iron placard hammered on the bench, long rusted, but the delicate carving is very much clear.

My heart is buried here with you, my love, resting alongside you for eternity and beyond.

I’ll forever roam the land, searching for you, aching for you .

Missing you.

A sharp pain shoots through me, and images of Maxwell sobbing at the gardens flood my vision again, followed by me laughing, dancing with him in the rose garden I haven’t stepped foot in, and furtive whispers about Venice and Aristotle.

There’s so much happiness and sadness. But these are dreams. They aren’t real, right?

What’s happening to me?

My fingers tremble as I trace each carefully carved word, feeling and seeing the devastating heartbreak of the man behind this message who left a piece of his soul here.

It’s a surety I feel deep in my gut.

I open the locket around my neck and stare at the near identical words inscribed inside.

It can’t be…can it?

My pulse hammers in my veins and thunder rumbles in the skies, the wind picking up in speed and ferociousness, and wetness drops onto the wrought iron placard.

My tears.

Belatedly, I realize I’m crying for some unknown reason. Every atom inside me yearns to find Maxwell because he’ll be able to soothe the ache. He’ll be able to heal my heart.

My fingers trail over the writing one last time when suddenly—

A brick loosens from a leg of the bench.

My breath freezes, my hands shaking as I pull out the brick, and feel around the hollow inside until my fingers touch something solid.

Pulling it out, I stare at the nondescript brown package wrapped in twine, the size of a book, and lightning snakes across the skies.

Please tell me this is what I think it is .

I carefully pull loose the twine and unwrap the parchment, finding a brown leather book carefully preserved, the edges worn and pages yellowed.

A few loose leaves of paper are tucked inside, but I ignore them for now. Gingerly, I flip to the first page, finding an entry in immaculate masculine script.

January 2, 1860, Wraithmoor Abbey

I saw your smile today and I can’t fathom why you were happy given you were ironing dresses and jackets at five in the morning. I should have been asleep were it not for the restlessness I felt inside me when I woke up lonely in my bedroom at the crack of dawn.

The house was cold, the fire long extinguished in the fireplace. But your smile was arresting—a flame brightening the dark crevices inside my chest. For the first time, I felt warmth.

“Silas,” I whisper, my hand clutching the journal tightly. His missing journal, the one from the 1860s, the decade Maxwell suspected something happened that changed the duke from the hopeful man to the severe aristocrat with sorrowful eyes in the portraits.

He’s writing about her…his Emma. I’m sure of it.

I want to know what happened to them; to him and to her. I need to know. I can’t explain the desperation rushing through my veins.

I flip to the next page when a distant noise interrupts me.

Freezing, I look toward the stairwell, hearing the heavy pounding of shoes against the steps. Quickly, I wrap the journal back in its packaging and put it in its hiding place before replacing the brick. I don’t want anyone to discover this journal, not before I finish reading it.

I know there are answers in there for the riddle I’ve been trying to solve since I stepped foot into these halls and felt like I was coming home.

Smoothing out my gray wool dress, I hurry to the staircase to head off whoever is coming up here because I don’t want anyone to disturb this sacred shrine. Somehow, I know Silas wouldn’t want anyone here.

A familiar blond head of hair and startling green eyes greet me as I make a turn in the stairwell, a dozen steps away from the fourth-floor entrance in the east wing.

“Cole?” I whisper, a chill sweeping through me.

“Belle. You need to come with me now. There’s no time.” His eyes are bloodshot, the dark circles under his eyes even more pronounced than last time. He has a full beard on his face and looks nothing like the charismatic friend I used to know.

Danger. Something’s off.

Fear rips into me as I try to skirt around him and get to the fourth floor, where I can call for help.

“W-What are you doing here, Cole? How did you know where I was? How did you even get in?”

He lets me pass as I hurry down the rest of the stairs. I feel the heat of his eyes on my back and every instinct inside me tells me to run, that I’m in danger.

“I don’t have time to explain right now. I snuck in and saw you up here from the ground. It’s a long story. But you need to come with me.”

“No. I won’t go anywhere with you until you tell me what’s going on. Why did you leave me in front of the ER the other day? Why did you disappear?”

I whirl around and face him, watching his handsome face darken, his nostrils flaring in the dim light. Slowly, I back away, my hand reaching for the doorknob of the stairwell door behind me.

Stay calm, Belle. Ask questions, but don’t antagonize him .

Twisting my lips into a shaky smile, I add, “I-I’ve been worried about you, Cole. You can tell me what’s going on, right?”

His face softens, and he swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat.

I grab hold of the doorknob and twist.

Thank God it isn’t locked.

“Oh Belle, I have so much to tell you. It’s not what you think it is, trust me. I’m just trying—”

His eyes widen in shock and I open my mouth to ask him what he’s not telling me when I feel it.

A tight clamp on my shoulder followed by a sharp pinch of a needle jamming into my neck.

Everything fades into darkness.