Julia swallowed, the mouthful of toast suddenly feeling like sawdust. Alistair's words hung in the air, a chilling promise. "Afterwards, you can tell me precisely how you came to have those marks on your body." Her mind raced, searching for an answer, any answer that wasn't the horrifying truth. The dizziness, a persistent throb behind her eyes, made coherent thought a struggle.
She looked at the food laid out before her: eggs, bacon, fresh fruit. It felt like a stage prop, a mockery of normalcy. Her stomach churned. Finch stood nearby, a silent sentinel, his watchful eyes seeming to miss nothing.
"I… I don't know, Alistair," Julia finally managed, her voice barely a whisper. The truth felt absurd, impossible to explain. How could she tell him she'd been scratched by a ghostly presence, by gloved hands in a nightmare, leaving phantom marks that felt sickeningly real?
Alistair leaned back in his chair, his blue eyes unwavering. A faint, almost imperceptible frown creased his brow. "You don't know?" he repeated, his tone laced with disbelief. "Julia, these are not mere scratches from a rose bush. They look as if… as if someone has raked their nails down your arm. And your leg. It seems somewhat… implausible, for you not to know the origin of such marks. They cannot simply appear from nothing."
He rose from his seat, his movements fluid and purposeful, and walked around the table to her side. His height loomed over her, a commanding presence. He reached out, his fingers gently tracing the faint, angry lines on her forearm. The touch, though light, sent a shiver through her, a mix of apprehension and a strange, unwelcome tremor. His eyes, fixed on the marks, were intense, almost possessive.
"These are marks given to you by someone," Alistair affirmed, his voice low, a dangerous certainty in his tone. He straightened, his gaze sweeping over the opulent room, then back to her. "Someone who would dare to enter your private chambers. Someone who slipped past the servants, perhaps. Before I take… security measures to prevent such an intrusion from ever occurring again, I must ensure the person is not still lurking within these walls." He paused, his eyes narrowing slightly. "We will thoroughly search your room, Julia. Now."
Julia's blood ran cold. The floor needed to open up and swallow her. Silas. He was still in the bathing chamber, just a few feet away, hidden behind that flimsy door. Panic clawed at her throat, stealing her breath. She couldn't allow it. She absolutely could not.
"No!" Julia blurted out, the word escaping her lips before she could censor it. She immediately tried to soften her tone, forcing logic into her voice. "Alistair, that's… that's hardly necessary. My room was already searched last night, before I even retired. It's quite secure, I assure you." She clutched the edge of the dining table, her knuckles white. "A thorough search now would be… an imposition. Unwarranted. It would disturb everything. Besides," she continued, desperate for a valid reason, "if someone *had* been in there, they would surely be gone by now. And a search wouldn't reveal anything they might have left behind."
Alistair watched her, his expression unreadable, a hint of suspicion flicking in his piercing blue eyes. "Perhaps," he conceded, his voice dangerously soft. "But what if they dropped a clue, a mistaken item, a mere thread that could aid us in identifying this… intruder? Are you so certain, Julia, that nothing was left behind?"
"But… but it's just a look," Julia argued, her voice rising slightly in her desperation. "It's not as if… as if they would leave anything so obvious. They would be more careful." She was arguing too much. Her reasoning sounded strained, almost frantic. She saw Alistair's eyebrows lift infinitesimally, a subtle shift in his expression that indicated her protests were having the opposite effect. He was becoming suspicious. He was looking at her as if she were hiding something. Which, of course, she was.
Why now? Julia's mind screamed. Why did Alistair suddenly insist on searching her room, precisely when Silas was in it? Was it merely coincidence, or something far more sinister? Had Finch seen Silas enter? Had he reported it to Alistair already? The cold dread in her stomach intensified.
She had to make a decision. Arguing further would only confirm his suspicions. She had to let them search. She had to trust Silas. She had to trust that he had found a way to hide, a way she couldn't even fathom.
"Very well, Alistair," Julia said, forcing the words out, her voice barely above a whisper. She managed a weak, almost imperceptible nod. "If it puts your mind at ease. You may… you may look." The agreement tasted like ash in her mouth.
Finch, ever observant, stepped forward. His gaze, usually so cold, seemed to soften for a fleeting moment as he took in Julia's ashen face. "You're quite pale, madam," he stated, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. "Perhaps you should finish your tea. I'll prepare something stronger." He reached for the teapot, pouring a fresh stream of the dark liquid into her cup.
Julia watched the tea, the faint medicinal scent rising from the porcelain. It was the same tea Elsie had brought earlier, the one that had tasted bitter, the one that had likely caused her lingering dizziness. She had barely touched her breakfast, her appetite gone with the escalating tension.
"No, thank you, Finch," Julia said, trying to keep her voice firm despite the racing of her heart. She pushed the cup away with a trembling hand. "I've just finished eating, and… and my stomach feels a little unsettled. I believe a stomach ache is coming on." She feigned a wince, pressing a hand to her abdomen.
Finch, however, seemed unmoved by her discomfort. "Ah, a stomach ache," he intoned, his severe expression unchanging. "Then this tea is precisely what you need, madam. It contains… certain herbs known to soothe such complaints." He nudged the cup closer to her, his watchful eyes fixed on hers.
Julia felt a fresh wave of despair. He wouldn't relent. He wanted her to drink it. "No, truly, Mr. Finch," she insisted, forcing a stronger refusal. "I appreciate the thought, but I really don't wish for tea right now. I can have it some other time. Perhaps later." Her voice was firm, leaving no room for argument. Finch's face remained unreadable, but after a moment, he withdrew, leaving the untouched cup on the table.
The breakfast ended quickly, a tense, silent affair. Alistair said little more, his eyes occasionally flicking to Julia, then to Finch. The moment Julia pushed her chair back, Alistair stood. "Come, then," he said, his voice decisive. "Let us put your mind at ease."
They ascended the stairs, Alistair leading the way, his presence a dark, powerful shadow. Julia followed, her heart a frantic drum against her ribs. Finch, silent and imposing, brought up the rear. Each step was agony. With every creak of the floorboards, Julia imagined Silas's capture, the horror of his exposure, the untold consequences.
As they entered her room, the lingering scent of soap from the bathing chamber seemed impossibly loud. Julia's eyes immediately darted to the bathing chamber door, a desperate, silent prayer on her lips. It was closed. She tried to make her face a mask of indifference, but her hands trembled slightly at her sides.
Finch began his search methodically, his movements efficient and thorough. He started with the wardrobe, opening drawers, feeling beneath folded clothes. Then he moved to the desk, rifling through papers, tapping on the wooden panels. His every action was precise, unhurried, agonizingly slow.
Alistair, meanwhile, turned his full attention to Julia. His eyes, warm yet unsettling, scanned her, then his gaze fell to the marks on her body again. He reached out, his fingers brushing the fabric of her sleeve, then gently pushing it up higher, exposing the red lines on her forearm. His touch lingered, tracing the marks with an almost obsessive tenderness that was profoundly disturbing.
"Tell me, Julia," Alistair murmured, his voice a low, seductive rumble that cut through her frantic thoughts. His head tilted slightly, his blue eyes holding hers with an intense, unwavering focus. "You've said you don't know. But perhaps… a fleeting memory? A nightmare that felt too real? Did anyone else enter this room last night? Did you hear anything peculiar?" He was so close she could feel the faint warmth radiating from him. His thumb stroked her skin, a slow, deliberate movement that made her feel oddly vulnerable, yet also a strange, dizzying pull.
Julia barely registered his words, barely felt the sensation of his fingers on her arm. Her entire being was focused on the bathing chamber door. Her breath hitched, a silent plea. Please, Silas. Don't let him find you. Please. She watched Finch, his movements methodical, deliberate. He knelt by the fireplace, peering into the grate. He ran his hand beneath the bed frame. He was searching everywhere.
She looked at Alistair's face, so close, so perfectly sculpted, and felt a strange disconnect. This man, her cousin's widower, was both her protector and her potential captor. The marks on her body, the very subject of his unnerving interest, were tied to the terrifying secrets of this house. And Silas, the man hiding inches away, was another secret entirely.
Finch moved away from the bed, his search continuing with unwavering dedication. He checked behind curtains, tapped against the paneling on the walls. He went through her books, shaking each one. Julia's heart pounded, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. She knew Silas was clever, resourceful. But Blackwood Hall had its own dark magic of concealment.
Finch circled back, his gaze sweeping the room one last time. He approached the large, imposing wardrobe near the bathing chamber door, running his hand along its dark wood. Julia held her breath, her chest tight with a desperate fear. He tugged at the handle, opening the doors. Empty. He checked the empty drawers. He felt along the back panel. Nothing.
Then, he moved towards the dressing table, meticulously examining each small bottle and brush. He moved the heavy armchair where Silas had slept. He searched under the thick rug. He even peered into the ornate clock on the mantelpiece.
Silence stretched, thick and heavy, punctuated only by Finch's quiet movements. He searched every conceivable nook and cranny. And then, he straightened. His gaze swept around the room, a slow, almost imperceptible nod. He had searched. Thoroughly. And he had found nothing. Julia let out a silent, shaky breath she hadn't realized she was holding. Silas was safe. For now. But where had he gone? How had he vanished?
"It seems there is no one here, my Lord," Finch announced, his voice devoid of emotion, his face a mask of polite efficiency. "The room is clear."
Alistair's hand slid from Julia's arm, his gaze still fixed on her, that unsettling intensity back in his eyes. He gave a curt nod to Finch. "Very well. Ensure no one is permitted to disturb Miss Harrow, Finch. And that no one is permitted to enter without her explicit permission." His words were for Finch, but his eyes were for Julia, a clear message of control.
Finch bowed stiffly. As he turned to leave, his gaze drifted to the window, the one Silas had stood by in the bathing chamber. He paused by the door, his stern face unreadable.
"You've left your window unlatched again, madam," Finch stated, his voice flat, yet carrying a subtle weight. "Dangerous habit."