The door clicked shut.
Nathaniel's eyes opened.
He didn't move at first. Just stared at the place where she had stood moments ago—faintly outlined by the dying firelight and the pale breath of dawn creeping in.
She left me.
The realization slid in like a knife, slow and silent.
He turned his head toward the empty side of the bed, where the sheets were still warm, rumpled with the shape of her body. The scent of her lingered in the air—salt and skin, candlewax and something sweeter underneath. He inhaled deeply, then exhaled through his nose.
"Foolish girl," he muttered, voice low and cold.
He sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed with quiet grace, the chill of the floor biting at his feet. He didn't seem to notice. His gaze remained fixed on the door, jaw tight, hands curling loosely at his thighs.
"She would dare deceive me?" he said aloud, as if the walls would answer. "Walk away as if she holds the power?"
His lips curled, not quite a smile. Something meaner. More amused than angry—but only just.
"She'll learn," he murmured. "They always do."
He rose, shrugging on a silk robe, the crimson fabric slipping over his bare skin like blood over bone. He paced once—slow, measured steps—then stopped beside the bed again, staring at the indent her body had left on the mattress.
He recalled the sound of her moans—how they broke and caught in her throat. The way her fingers trembled when she clung to him. The heat of her skin, slick and flushed beneath his hands. So eager. So desperate to be wanted.
Just like Eleanor.
His smile sharpened.
"I won't discard her," he decided. "Not yet."
He leaned down, pressed his palm to the bedsheet where her body had been, the warmth quickly fading.
"She's… entertaining," he whispered, the word a purr of satisfaction.
He let the silence settle, heavy and charged.
Then his voice dropped, dark and certain.
"And eventually… she'll beg to stay."
The water was warm, scented with rose petals and lavender, but Evelyn felt cold. Not from the air—Clara had stoked the fire before running the bath—but from the weight inside her.
She sat motionless in the tub, the faint lapping of water the only sound in the room. Her skin was pale and dappled with bruises—some light and golden, others darkening into deep violets and reds. The sponge in Clara's hand moved carefully, wiping away what traces of the night remained.
"You must've been so cold on your way back," Clara said gently, her voice hushed, as though speaking louder might break her mistress. "It's not safe to be out so late, not for someone like you."
Evelyn said nothing.
Clara didn't notice the silence for what it was. She continued, washing her lady's back with reverent strokes. "Still… I suppose it was a special evening." Her smile was faint but fond. "He must truly love you, to keep you so long."
Evelyn flinched.
It was slight—barely a twitch—but Clara noticed and paused.
"My lady?" she asked softly, concerned.
Evelyn shook her head. "I'm just… sore."
Clara nodded with a gentle hum of understanding. "Of course you are. He's a passionate man, Lord Nathaniel. Everyone says so." She dipped the sponge again. "And he's been alone so long… After losing you once, it must feel like a dream to have you back."
Evelyn's lips parted, but no words came. She stared down at the water, at her reflection distorted in the ripples. A stranger looked back. Hollow eyes. A mouth that knew how to smile and lie in the same breath.
He didn't lose me, she thought bitterly. He lost her. And I was foolish enough to step into her shadow.
Clara leaned in to rinse her hair, fingers gentle as they combed through the wet strands.
"Truth be told, I didn't want to believe it was you when you first arrived," she said conversationally. "But after spending time with you, I can see you really lady Eleanor, I suppose."
Evelyn stiffened.
Clara didn't notice.
A strange, tight sound escaped Evelyn's throat—half laugh, half gasp.
Clara looked up, alarmed. "Did I say something wrong?"
"No," Evelyn said quickly, too quickly. "You didn't."
It's not your fault you believe I'm someone I'm not.
She reached for the edge of the tub, gripping it with white-knuckled fingers. "I'm tired," she whispered. "Help me out."
Clara rose at once, fetching a towel, her smile as warm as ever. "Of course, my lady."
Evelyn didn't correct her.
Not when Clara wrapped the towel around her like a shroud.
Not when she whispered, "He'll take care of you now, like he couldn't before."
Not even when she said, "You were meant to come back."
Because Eleanor was the one meant to be loved.
And Evelyn—Evelyn was just the girl who lied.
The fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the velvet drapes and rose-colored walls. Evelyn sat at the writing desk, already dressed in one of Eleanor's gowns—a soft blue silk with delicate embroidery along the collar. It clung differently to her frame, but the illusion held. It always did, in stillness.
In her hands, she held Eleanor's journal. The leather was worn, the corners frayed, pages edged with ink and memory. Her thumb brushed the initials on the cover—E.A.D.
She hadn't dared open it. Not yet.
Instead, her eyes were fixed on the blank page before her. A sheet of fine parchment, crisp and cold, waiting for ink.
The quill trembled slightly in her hand as she dipped it into the inkwell and began:
Sir Bastian,
I can no longer continue this deception. I—
She paused. Her jaw tightened. She could hear the scratch of the quill echoing in her mind like guilt made audible. The words on the page blurred as her vision swam. She blinked them away.
I am not Eleanor. And pretending to be her… it's—
Evelyn dropped the pen.
She sat back, pressing her palms to her eyes.
She thought of last night—of Nathaniel's hands, his mouth, the weight of his body and his whisper: Eleanor.
She thought of the ache between her legs. The bruises. The warmth that still lingered on her skin. The way it almost felt like love, if she didn't look too closely.
It wasn't for me, she thought. None of it was.
Her hand curled over her chest, fingers fisting the fabric just above her heart.
And then… her brother's face came to mind.
Theodore.
Young. Brash. Too kind for a world like this. His hair always a mess, his boots always muddy, his letters always ending with "I'll be better next time, Evie. I promise."
And the decree.
The Imperial Army had begun conscriptions again—taking boys barely into manhood and shipping them off to die in foreign wars. Sir Bastian had been the only reason Theodore was still free. His protection, his influence, his condition.
Pretend to be Eleanor… he'd said. Just long enough. Just until the estate is secured. Until Nathaniel lets his guard down.
Evelyn swallowed.
If I stop now… Who will protect Theo?
Her hands were cold as she folded the unfinished letter in half, slowly, carefully. She didn't tear it. She didn't burn it. She simply slid it into the drawer beside Eleanor's journal and closed it.
Then, after a moment's hesitation, she opened the journal.
The first page was dated five months before Eleanor's disappearance. The handwriting was elegant, slanted, and bold.
The roses by the western wall have begun to wither, though I tended them yesterday. Strange how quickly things can lose their bloom when no one is looking.
Lord Ashcroft mentioned the border reforms again at supper. He thinks Nathaniel will oppose them, but he doesn't know how loyal Nathaniel is to the Crown—or how isolated loyalty can become when everyone around you carries secrets in their coat lining.
I said nothing. I've learned silence opens more doors than questions ever could.
The maid dropped the decanter again. Second time this week. I've told her not to worry, but the poor thing's hands shake when she sees me. I don't blame her. Sometimes I feel I'm a ghost even now, walking ahead of the death they've planned for me.
---
Evelyn's eyes lingered on that final line.
A ghost.
It didn't make sense—not fully. But there was something lonely in those words. Something that resonated in the hollow of her own chest even though She had read the words so many times the ink felt etched into her memory—every slanted loop, every flourish at the end of Eleanor's "y." But no matter how often she returned to it, the entry never made any more sense.
A ghost walking ahead of the death they've planned for me.
What did that mean?
She ran her thumb lightly across the page, as if the texture might reveal what the words refused to say. Was it poetry? Melancholy? A lover's dramatics?
Or something else?
She didn't know. And that was the worst part.
"I don't understand you," she whispered to the journal, as if Eleanor herself might answer.
But of course, there was only silence. Only the stillness of her chamber, the tick of the clock, the slow burn of a candle sputtering in the corner. Eleanor was gone—swallowed by history and whispers. And Evelyn, for all her effort, still wore a stranger's skin.
She closed the journal with a quiet sigh and set it aside. Her gaze drifted toward the writing desk where her unfinished letter to Sir Bastian lay in wait.
Half a sentence written.
Half a confession.
Her hand hovered over the paper for a moment—but then her brother's name echoed in her mind like a warning bell.
Theodore.
If she told the truth, if she ended the charade now… who would stop the army from conscripting him? Who would protect him?
Her jaw tightened.
With slow, deliberate movements, she slid the letter beneath the false drawer, tucked it away again like she had so many times before.
She would write it one day.
Just not today.