Julia's blood ran cold. The window in the bathing chamber. The very one Silas had to have used for his impossible escape. Finch knew. He always knew. He was watching. Always.
"Oh, that," Julia said, forcing a light, dismissive tone she didn't feel. Her voice was too high, too bright. "Yes, well, the air in here can be a trifle stuffy at times. I often find it helps to have a breath of fresh air, even on cooler nights. It aids with… clearer thinking, you see." She hoped her explanation sounded convincing, a harmless eccentricity.
Finch's eyes, dark and unblinking, regarded her for a long moment. He didn't reply, simply held her gaze, a silent testament to his unnerving observation. The air in the room seemed to crackle with unspoken knowledge.
Alistair, however, seemed to accept her flimsy excuse. He moved closer to Julia, his hand finding her wrist, his thumb gently caressing the pulse point. His touch was unexpectedly tender, a stark contrast to the grim tension in the room. He turned her wrist over, his eyes tracing the faint scratches again.
"Still, Julia," he murmured, his voice soft, almost intimate, "stuffy air or not, such habits invite… unwelcome visitors. Especially with these marks." His gaze, though seemingly concerned, held a possessive glint that sent a shiver down her spine. The gentle touch on her wrist became a subtle tether.
Julia felt a dizzying combination of dread and a strange, confusing pull. Silas was out there, exposed, potentially clinging to a precarious ledge, because of her. And Alistair, the man who might be responsible for Marian's death, was touching her, his concern both genuine and suffocating.
Finch, meanwhile, began to slowly, deliberately, move towards the bathing chamber door. His footsteps were quiet, almost imperceptible on the thick carpet. Julia's eyes widened, her heart leaping into her throat. He wasn't leaving. He was going to check. He was going to find Silas.
"Alistair," Julia interjected quickly, her voice sharp with desperation. "I… I really must insist we conclude this. The search has yielded nothing. As you can see, there's no intruder. And I am feeling quite unwell now, a dreadful headache is truly setting in. I just… I just need to rest." She clutched at her temple, trying to emphasize the point, praying he would take the bait.
Alistair's hand moved from her wrist to her waist, his fingers splaying against the thin fabric of her gown, his touch a possessive weight that both startled and captivated her. He drew her closer, his gaze softening, filled with genuine concern for her distress. "My dear Julia," he said, his voice laced with regret, "I apologize. Of course. Forgive me. I simply wished to ensure your absolute safety. Blackwood Hall can be… unsettling, even for those accustomed to grand houses."
As he spoke, Finch was now perilously close to the bathing chamber door, his hand almost outstretched. Julia's eyes darted frantically between Alistair's concerned face and Finch's approaching figure. Her mind raced, desperately seeking a distraction.
Suddenly, a faint, muffled thud echoed from within the bathing chamber. It was subtle, barely audible over the beat of Julia's own frantic heart, but it was there. Finch froze. His head snapped towards the door, his stern features hardening, his eyes narrowing with a hunter's instinct. He took a swift, deliberate step towards the chamber, his hand reaching for the doorknob.
Terror coiled in Julia's stomach, a cold, sickening knot. This was it. Silas would be discovered. She had to act. Now.
With a desperate, silent prayer, Julia let her knees buckle. The dizziness, fueled by fear and the lingering effects of the tea, became a powerful ally. She swayed dramatically, a soft gasp escaping her lips. Her hand flew to her forehead, and her eyes rolled slightly.
"Alistair!" she choked out, letting her body go limp, feigning a sudden, overwhelming faint.
Alistair reacted instantly. His arm tightened around her waist, catching her before she could truly fall. His expression shifted from concern to alarm. "Julia!" he exclaimed, his voice sharp with worry. He swept her up into his arms, lifting her effortlessly, as if she weighed nothing at all.
His strong arms cradled her, his warmth seeping through her clothes. His face, etched with genuine distress, was close to hers. For a fleeting, disorienting moment, Julia felt a strange, unsettling comfort in his embrace, despite the immediate danger and the man he truly was. She felt the beat of his heart against her side, strong and steady.
He carried her swiftly towards the bed, his movements smooth and purposeful. "Finch!" Alistair commanded, his voice sharp, without looking at the butler. "Leave the bathing chamber. Julia requires rest. She is clearly unwell."
Finch paused, his hand inches from the doorknob. His head slowly turned, his eyes, dark and unblinking, fixed on Julia in Alistair's arms. A flicker of disappointment, stark and undeniable, crossed his rigid features. He had been so close.
"As you wish, my Lord," Finch said, his voice clipped, his gaze lingering on the bathing chamber door for another moment before he finally withdrew. He bowed stiffly.
Alistair gently lowered Julia onto the bed, propping pillows behind her head. His fingers brushed a strand of hair from her face, his touch surprisingly soft. "Rest now, Julia," he instructed, his voice tender, yet firm. "I will ensure you are not disturbed. I will send Elsie with some broth. And then we will speak more later." He stood over her, his gaze intense, a mixture of protectiveness and something unreadable.
He turned, glancing briefly at the bathing chamber door, then at Finch. "Come, Finch," he commanded, his voice returning to its usual composed tone. He strode towards the door, his expression determined.
Finch followed, his eyes sweeping over the room one last time, a dark, calculating glint in their depths. As he reached the threshold, his gaze flickered to the window in the bathing chamber. He paused for a fraction of a second, his head tilted almost imperceptibly, as if listening to a silent whisper.
Then, his voice, low and sharp as a honed blade, sliced through the closing door. "I'll be back to check the windows. Every last one."
---
The click of the door as it latched echoed in the sudden silence, a final, chilling pronouncement. Julia lay still for a long moment, listening, her heart still pounding. Only when she was certain they were truly gone, their footsteps fading down the hallway, did she slowly push herself upright.
She swung her legs off the bed, her muscles protesting. The dizziness persisted, a dull ache behind her eyes, but the immediate threat had passed. She scrambled towards the door, turning the key in the lock with trembling fingers. Safe. For now.
Then, she moved to the bathing chamber door, her heart lurching with a renewed wave of anxiety. What if he wasn't there? What if he'd slipped away? Or worse, what if Finch's near-discovery had forced him into a truly perilous position?
She eased the bathing chamber door open, peering inside. The room was empty. No Silas. Her breath caught. Had he… had he actually jumped?
She rushed to the window, throwing it open wider. The cold morning air rushed in, carrying the scent of damp earth and distant sea spray. She leaned out, scanning the stone facade below, her gaze sweeping desperately for any sign of him. Nothing. Just the sheer drop to the overgrown garden below.
Panic threatened to overwhelm her, but then, a faint glint of movement, almost invisible against the grey stone. Her eyes darted downwards, following an almost imperceptible curve of the wall. And there he was.
Silas.
He was clinging to a narrow, barely-there ledge just below the window, his body pressed flat against the cold stone, his long limbs strained and taut. His black hair, now plastered to his forehead, gleamed faintly in the faint light. He looked like a gargoyle carved from shadow, impossibly clinging to the ancient house. He was straining, his muscles visibly tensed, showing the immense effort it took to hold himself there for so long.
"Silas!" Julia whispered, her voice a rush of relief and terror. "Oh, thank heavens!"
He looked up, his amber eyes meeting hers. A wry, exhausted smile touched his lips, a flash of white against his pale face. "It's quite the view from down here, Julia," he said, his voice surprisingly steady, though strained. "Though I wouldn't recommend it for extended stays. My arms are beginning to protest."
Julia reached down, extending her hand, her own fingers trembling. "Give me your hand," she urged, her voice fierce with concern. "I'll help you."
Silas took her outstretched hand, his grip strong, even though his arm muscles flexed tautly under the strain. He pulled himself up with a grunt, his movements practiced and efficient, but she felt the tremor in his arm as he swung himself back into the safety of the bathing chamber. He landed lightly on the tiled floor, leaning back against the wall, taking deep, ragged breaths.
"You're a clever one," he said, his eyes glinting at her, that familiar, knowing amusement returning. "The headache act? A stroke of genius. Almost as convincing as a real faint." He grinned, a flash of teeth that was both charming and wolfish.
Julia felt a fresh blush rise to her cheeks. "It was necessary," she retorted, trying to sound aloof, even as relief flooded her. "You were nearly caught. How did you even… how did you fit down there?"
Silas pushed off the wall, stretching his arms, wincing slightly. "A youth spent scaling rooftops and avoiding angry landlords," he quipped, then his expression sobered. "I overheard Alistair's intent to search the room. It seemed the most… discrete option. Although I must confess, Alistair's sudden desire to search your room, knowing you were alone, was rather odd. Almost as if he suspected something, or someone, was already present." He paused, his gaze thoughtful. "Or perhaps he was just playing a game."
Julia shivered. "He knows too much. He sees too much." She clasped her hands together, her mind racing. "But you're right. It was a close call. Too close. And Finch… he saw the window. He'll be back."
"He will," Silas confirmed, his eyes narrowed. "The old man is thorough. And loyal. To whom, exactly, remains to be seen."
"We need to get you proper food," Julia decided, her practical mind taking over. "And then we must figure out a way to get you to the East Wing. It's too dangerous for you to remain here." She looked at him, truly seeing him for the first time in the safety of the room. He was still damp, his clothes clinging to him. He was tired, despite his bravado.
"Food sounds like a magnificent idea," Silas agreed, a hint of genuine hunger in his eyes. "My current diet of cold stone and rainwater has been… lacking."
Julia smiled, a genuine, relieved smile that reached her eyes for the first time in days. "Stay here. And be absolutely silent. I'll go to the kitchen. I'll make up some excuse for Elsie or whoever I encounter." She turned to leave, pausing at the door. "And when I return, you can have that bath you almost had earlier."
Silas chuckled, a low, pleased sound. "Now that sounds like a plan, Julia."
She locked the bedroom door behind her, the heavy click a small reassurance. The corridors of Blackwood Hall felt suddenly menacing, every shadow a potential hiding place for prying eyes. She crept down to the kitchen, feigning a sudden, ravenous hunger after her missed breakfast, claiming her stomach had finally settled. She managed to procure a plate of cold meats, bread, and cheese, along with a flask of lukewarm tea, assuring a skeptical cook that she was simply a growing girl with an unpredictable appetite.
Upon her return, she found Silas exactly where she had left him, leaning against the bathing chamber wall, eyes closed. He opened them at the click of the lock, a flicker of relief crossing his features.
"Success," Julia announced, holding up the plate.
Silas took it, his eyes gleaming with appreciation. He ate quickly, with the efficient hunger of a man who hadn't known when his next meal would come. Julia watched him, a strange warmth spreading through her. He was a dangerous secret, a complication to her already perilous existence, but he was also a tangible ally, a ghost from Marian's past who believed her.
While he ate, Julia began to brainstorm. "We have to get you into the East Wing tonight," she murmured, pacing the small room. "But how? Finch, Agnes… they're everywhere. And Alistair will be watching me even more closely now. What if they still go there? What if you're discovered?" The thought of Agnes, the stern housekeeper who had spotted her that first day, sent a fresh wave of anxiety through her. The East Wing was isolated, but not impenetrable. And Alistair had never truly sealed it off. Just forbidden it. Which, in Blackwood Hall, meant surveillance.
Silas finished the last of the bread, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked at her, his amber eyes thoughtful. "We will find a way, Julia. We have to." He stood, the plate in his hand. "And first, that bath. I suspect it will clear my head for strategy." He turned to the bathing chamber, the promise of a reckoning simmering beneath his calm exterior.