Chapter 35

The rhythmic clatter of the train's wheels against the track did little to soothe the storm in Alistair's mind. Rain slicked the windows, reducing the landscape to a smear of green and grey. He sat in his private compartment, the deep leather of the seat creaking beneath him as he leaned forward, fingers steepled beneath his chin. A bottle of brandy, unopened, rested on the table beside him, untouched. He didn't need the dulling warmth of alcohol. What he needed was clarity.

Lady Henswick's Fever Draft.

He repeated the name in his mind like a bitter mantra. The moment Julia had spoken it, something had shifted. The name was unfamiliar—laughably so. No such tonic existed, and he had scoured enough pharmacopeias over the years to know that with certainty. The idea that such an elusive medicine would be unknown to every doctor and chemist in London was preposterous.

And yet she had spoken it with conviction.

The memory of her pale, drawn face twisted his insides. Her voice—tight with pain, her skin flushed, her pupils too wide. The migraines. The blood. Her trembling hands as she'd clutched her temple. That hadn't been an act. No, her suffering was real. But the tonic… the tonic had been a lie.

And not a small lie, either.

Alistair pressed his forehead to the cool glass, watching as droplets chased one another down the pane. He had known something was amiss the moment Julia pleaded with him not to send for a doctor. The fear in her voice had not been rooted in illness or trauma, but something else. Something deeper. Something hidden.

Why did she want me gone?

The question burned, unspoken, on his tongue. He could have pressed her further—he should have—but her suffering had disarmed him. It always did. She had an uncanny ability to draw forth his protectiveness, to reduce his logic to ash beneath the weight of her anguish.

Still, he was no fool.

"You're lying to me, Julia," he murmured, his breath fogging the glass. "But why?"

Was she afraid of him? Of Blackwood Hall? Of what she might uncover if he remained?

The thought made something dark and ugly stir inside him.

Or… is it something more dangerous? Is she hiding someone?

His jaw tightened at the possibility. The East Wing. She had wandered there too many times. Mr. Finch had spoken of it—grudgingly. Of her questions, her defiance, her quiet obsession with the past. Her insatiable need to unravel Marian's death.

And now, the sudden need for him to leave. Not just leave the room. Leave the estate.

Alistair stood abruptly, pacing the narrow length of the compartment. He moved like a predator in a cage, caged by duty, suspicion, and a gnawing ache he couldn't quite name. The rain outside thickened into a curtain, matching the storm brewing behind his eyes.

What if she truly believed Finch had harmed Marian?

That wasn't so far-fetched. Finch had adored Marian. Unnaturally so, perhaps. Alistair had turned a blind eye to it in those early days, chalking it up to loyalty, to grief. But now…

He shook his head. "No," he muttered aloud. "Finch would never—"

And yet Julia had spoken with such desperation. The way she trembled when she said his name. The look in her eyes. The blood on her gown. Her certainty. Her conviction.

And the way she had recoiled when he tried to reassure her. As if he were the danger.

Alistair stared at his reflection in the darkened window. The high cheekbones, the hollow beneath his eyes, the pale cut of his mouth—he looked more ghost than man. A specter hunting a phantom draft in a city that held no answers.

A sharp knock broke the silence.

He turned as the conductor opened the compartment door slightly.

"Sir, we'll be arriving in London in under an hour."

Alistair nodded. "Thank you." As the door clicked shut, he exhaled slowly, controlling the violent thrum of thoughts in his skull.

He had no intention of searching for the fever draft. That was a ruse—a charade he had willingly stepped into. What he needed now was time. Space. Distance from Julia to think clearly. But more than that, he needed to test her.

She wanted me gone. Let's see what she does with the freedom.

He would return before she expected him. Sooner, even. He would watch, quietly, from the shadows if need be. He would see who she met. Where she went. What secrets she whispered to the wind.

Because something was wrong at Blackwood Hall. He had felt it long before Julia arrived. The shadows were thicker. The nights colder. The walls whispered when no one was near. And now… now there were lies.

He would get to the truth. If it meant peeling back every layer of Julia's carefully crafted story. If it meant exposing every ghost that roamed his ancestral home.

And if he discovered that she was hiding something—someone—in those crumbling halls…

Alistair's fingers curled into fists. The gentle hum of civility vanished from his expression, replaced by the cold, calculating stillness that had earned him the nickname the Raven Lord among the barons of old.

Let Julia have her secrets for now. Let her bask in the illusion of safety.

———

The train screamed its arrival into London like a thing wounded. Steel shrieked against steel as the carriage slowed, the landscape of countryside ruin giving way to soot-streaked rooftops and lamp-lit streets blurred by mist. The city was always grey, always wet, always watching.

Alistair stepped down from the carriage with the silent precision of a man accustomed to being obeyed by both servants and space. His coat was heavy and black, collar turned against the rain. The porter offered to take his bag, but he waved him off without a word and made for the waiting carriage, where a liveried driver stood to attention beneath the dripping awning of the station portico.

"Redbridge Terrace," Alistair said, voice clipped. "Do not dawdle."

The horses started with a jolt, hooves clicking against cobblestones like bones tapping through a coffin lid. Inside the carriage, the scent of the city curled in around him—coal smoke, wet brick, the sour tang of standing water. Alistair didn't mind it. London was a place of masks, and he wore his well here.

He reclined against the dark velvet interior, gloved fingers drumming against the windowsill, his mind already several steps ahead of his arrival.

Julia's flat. Evelyn's domain.

He had only been there once before, years ago, under the strained civility of an engagement visit. Evelyn Harrow had looked at him then like a butcher might inspect a blade—checking not for sharpness, but for stain. She had smiled—tight, mirthless—and served tea strong enough to strip varnish.

He'd sipped it anyway.

And now he was going back.

The streets narrowed as they turned into the older quarters, past shuttered shops and gaslamps flickering like dying stars. Redbridge Terrace appeared as a crooked row of narrow townhouses, ivy-choked and pale as gravestones. Alistair's eyes scanned them automatically. Julia's was the third from the corner, its window blind slightly askew, like a woman's eye half-closed in suspicion.

He stepped down from the carriage without waiting for assistance.

The flat was modest—too modest—and the very idea of Julia here, hunched over tea and books beneath threadbare lamps, offended him. She belonged at Blackwood Hall. Its grandeur, its silence, its history—it suited her, even if she hadn't realized it yet. This place was too small for her thoughts. Too fragile for her pain.

He stepped up to the door.

The brass knocker was cold in his hand as he struck it twice—measured, deliberate. No impatience. No apology.

Inside, he heard motion—a rustle of skirts, the abrupt clatter of something metal against ceramic.

"I'm coming," called a woman's voice—tight, imperious, hurried.

The door opened.

And Evelyn Harrow froze in the threshold like she'd seen a corpse rise.

Her mouth parted, red and stark against her powdered skin. She wore grey again—always grey—like mourning had become a daily discipline. Her hair was wound in its iron crown, her eyes sharp enough to cut glass.

"You."

Alistair offered a smile as polished as marble.

"Lady Harrow," he said smoothly. "How fortunate that you're in. I thought I might call upon the woman who raised my wife and her cousin."

Her expression did not flicker. "Where is Julia?" she demanded, without preamble, without courtesy.

"Safe," Alistair replied. "At Blackwood Hall."

Her breath caught—not in grief, but in fury. "She shouldn't be there."

"On that, we continue to disagree."

She stepped forward, narrowing the door but not shutting it. Not yet. "She was only meant to catalogue Marian's belongings. You said as much. Has she not finished?"

Alistair didn't blink. "She hasn't even begun."

Evelyn's lips curled into something between disbelief and scorn. "Don't lie to me."

"I don't need to," he said, brushing a raindrop from his coat sleeve with exaggerated care. "She's been… unwell."

"Unwell," Evelyn repeated, the word falling from her mouth like poison into a cup.

"She's had spells," Alistair continued, stepping past her into the hallway before she could stop him. "Headaches. Nosebleeds. Fainting. Quite dramatic, really. Very like Marian near the end."

The word end made Evelyn stiffen.

He turned, removing his gloves with slow precision. "And you know what's odd? Before Marian died, she suffered the same symptoms. The same feverish terrors. The same—shall we say—refusal to be seen by a physician."

Evelyn shut the door with a sharp click and stood with her back against it, spine straight as a pike. "What are you suggesting?"

He looked at her. Really looked. She had aged, but she had not softened. Her face was a mask carved from discipline and regret. Her eyes, though, held fire—the kind of fire people build barricades around.

"I'm suggesting," he said calmly, "that whatever killed Marian may have started before she married me. And now… now it's started in Julia."

Evelyn crossed her arms, the crucifix still glinting faintly at her throat. "And you think I had something to do with it."

"I think you know more than you've said."

A silence settled between them—long and cold. The kind of silence that hinted at buried years.

Then Evelyn spoke, her voice low and sharp. "Get out."

He stepped closer, enough to force her to tilt her chin to meet his eyes.

"Tell me about Lady Henswick's Fever Draft."

Her lips parted.

But no words came.

Alistair saw it then—a flicker. Recognition. The barest tremble in her mouth before she clamped it shut.

"You do know it," he said, voice softer now, like velvet pulled over a dagger. "Or at least, you've heard it. Julia said the name like a prayer. But the thing is, Evelyn, that fever draft doesn't exist."

"I told her never to say it aloud," Evelyn whispered before she caught herself.

Alistair's eyes narrowed.

"What is it?" he asked.

And Evelyn, pale now, jaw clenched, turned away from him, one hand rising to grip the doorframe.

"Tell me," he said again, voice calm, but no longer polite. "What's in it? Who gave it to her? What you have to do with it."

He stepped toward her.

And she didn't answer.

But she trembled.

The candle on the sideboard guttered suddenly, though the room was sealed from wind.

Alistair turned his gaze toward it—watched the tiny flame struggle, twist, and then right itself again.

When he looked back, Evelyn was watching it too.

"The house knows," she said, voice almost too soft to hear. "It always knows."

"What did you say?" he asked, though he had heard every syllable.

Her hands were clenched into fists now, white-knuckled. Her gaze met his at last, defiant.

"I told Julia not to go," she said, voice shaking with fury. "I told her that house eats women whole. And now it has her too."

Alistair's expression did not change.

But behind his eyes, something began to crack.