Chapter 12: The Hour Beneath the Skin

The west tower had not been entered in decades. The dust her was thick, like ash from forgotten fires, and the air smelled faintly of lavender and decay.

Eveline climbed the spiral staircase slowly, trailing her fingers along the cold stone wall. Each step felt heavier than the last, like the house was weighing her down—testing her resolve. 

"Do you ever feel like the house is alive?" she had once asked Rowan.

"No," he had said too quickly. "But I feel like it remembers."

She found the door open—waiting for her.

Inside: an attic room half-swallowed by shadows, moonlight leaking through the cracked panes. In the center stood an old desk. On it, a diary. And beside it, a mirror she hadn't seen before.

The diary's spine creaked as she open it.

E.H.

The handwriting was hers. Or rather—Harrow's.

"I have bent the rules of this world to find him. Time is not cruel—only stubborn. And I, more so."

"He said he'd come back. He didn't say to whom."

"So I made sure he would remember. Even if it broke him."

Behind her, the mirror fogged—though no one breathed near it.

And then a voice:

"She didn't just love him, Eveline. She bound him."

Rowan stood in the doorway.

"You knew" she said, voice shaking.

"I knew parts. I didn't want the rest to be true."

"You didn't tell me she tried to trap your soul in the house."

He said nothing.

"Why would she do that?"

"Because… she couldn't bear the idea of you being born without him."

"So she cursed herself?"

"No," Rowan said softly. "She cursed you."

Outside, the wind howled.

Inside, the candlelight flickered—and in the mirror, Lady Harrow's eyes opened.