Chapter 3 Cassian
The night pressed in like a secret I wasn’t supposed to know. The manor groaned under the weight of rain, its beams whispering old names I didn’t want to remember. I sat at the edge of my bed, hands trembling against the silk of my robe, watching the shadows move across the walls as though they had minds of their own.
The clock ticked in uneven beats — one, two… pause… one, two, three. Like a heart that had forgotten its rhythm. Like mine.
Something inside me felt unmoored lately. Not just fatigue — a deeper, quieter terror. The kind that seeps into your bones and pretends to be ordinary tiredness until it starts speaking in voices that sound like your own.
I pressed my fingers against my temples, inhaled the faint smell of lavender that Ivy had left behind. Her presence lingered even after she left a room — the ghost of her perfume, the echo of her careful footsteps. She carried calm like a weapon, cutting through my chaos with her steady gaze.
But calm isn’t always good. Sometimes, calm means danger wearing perfume.
I had noticed the way Ivy looked at me that evening — not like a nurse looking at a patient, but like a woman measuring the edges of someone else’s soul. There was a curiosity there, sharp as glass.
And maybe — maybe I wanted her to look.
---
The rain grew heavier, drumming against the windows. I rose, feeling the floor tilt slightly beneath me. My neurologist said that might happen — the spells, the dissociation, the sudden lapses where memory blinked and the world bent.
But tonight, it felt different. Like the house was breathing with me.
I walked toward the mirror. The silver in my hair caught the dim light, shimmering like moonlit frost. My reflection was almost unfamiliar — eyes too dark, cheekbones too sharp, a beauty that looked like it had forgotten to be kind.
Then, a flicker.
For half a second, my reflection smiled — but I hadn’t.
I stumbled back, breath catching. The mirror was still. My own face stared back, unchanged.
“You’re tired,” I whispered to myself. “You’re just tired.”
But the voice that answered — soft, close, and almost amused — wasn’t mine.
Are you sure, Cassian?
I froze.
The air thickened around me, and somewhere beneath the floorboards, I thought I heard something move — a soft shuffle, a pulse. I shut my eyes tight, counting backward like Dr. Laird had taught me. Ten… nine… eight…
The noise stopped.
When I opened my eyes again, the room was still — except for Ivy, standing quietly by the doorway.
---
She had that way of appearing without sound. Always in neutral colors — ivory blouse, black trousers — but tonight she wore a deep wine-red sweater that clung to her in a way that felt deliberate. Her hair was damp from the rain, loose and darker than usual.
“Couldn’t sleep?” she asked softly.
I nodded, my voice caught somewhere between confession and control. “No.”
She hesitated, then stepped closer. “You didn’t take your medication.”
I hated how she said it — like she knew everything, like she could see through the half-empty glass on the bedside table.
“It makes me feel numb,” I murmured.
“Maybe numb is better than lost,” she said.
Her words landed heavy. I looked at her — really looked. The way the lamplight caught her collarbone, the way she folded her arms like she was trying to hold herself together.
“I’m not lost,” I said finally. “I just don’t trust what’s real anymore.”
Ivy exhaled, slow. “Cassian… that’s exactly what being lost is.”
---
She moved toward the bed and sat, keeping a polite distance — too polite. The air between us was a live wire.
I could smell her — rain, mint, and something faintly metallic. My pulse thudded in my throat.
“I saw something,” I said quietly. “In the mirror.”
Her gaze flickered to it. “What did you see?”
“Me. But not me. She smiled.”
She didn’t laugh or dismiss it, and that unnerved me more than anything.
“I believe you,” she said. “Sometimes mirrors remember what we forget.”
I blinked. “What does that mean?”
“Nothing,” she said quickly, standing. “I should check your vitals.”
Her professional tone returned — crisp, precise — but the tremor in her hand when she reached for my wrist betrayed her.
“You’re shaking,” I said.
“So are you.”
Her eyes met mine. For a second, everything in the world held its breath.
And then the lights flickered.
---
The generator stuttered outside, and the manor plunged into near-darkness. Only the firelight from the hearth remained, painting her face in gold and shadow.
Something about the moment snapped whatever restraint either of us had. She didn’t move away, and I didn’t either.
The silence between us was not empty — it was charged, like a storm waiting to break. Every heartbeat, every breath, every flicker of her lashes became unbearable.
“Ivy…” I whispered.
Her name tasted like confession.
But before she could respond, the floorboards upstairs creaked — slow, deliberate. Someone else was awake.
We both froze.
Ivy turned toward the door, but the sound had already stopped. Only the wind outside, howling like it knew something we didn’t.
When she looked back at me, her face had changed — composed again, unreadable.
“I’ll check it out,” she said.
“No,” I said quickly. “Stay.”
She hesitated, then sat again, closer this time.
Her hand brushed mine — a mistake, maybe — but it felt deliberate. The smallest touch, but it burned.
I didn’t pull away. Neither did she.
---
Later, when the lights came back, she helped me lie down, pulling the blanket up to my chest. Her hands lingered longer than necessary.
“Try to sleep,” she whispered.
“What if I don’t wake up?”
“You will.”
“Promise me.”
She didn’t answer.
Instead, she leaned close — close enough that I could feel her breath on my cheek. For a heartbeat, the whole world existed in that space between us — the almost, the might, the not-yet.
Then she straightened, her expression softening.
“Goodnight, Cassian.”
When she left, I stayed awake, watching the shadows climb the walls again. But this time, the whisper that came wasn’t from inside my head.
It came from the hallway.
She’s lying to you.
---
Ivy’s POV
I closed Cassian’s door gently, my hand still trembling from the warmth of her skin. I shouldn’t have stayed that long. I shouldn’t have let her look at me that way.
But something about her — her fragility, her brilliance, the sharp edges beneath all that grace — pulled me in like gravity.
The manor was silent as I made my way down the corridor, but I could feel it watching me. The portraits on the walls seemed to follow my movements — her ancestors, pale and severe, eyes like Cassian’s.
I stopped when I reached the end of the hall. The old grandfather clock stood there, ticking faintly.
But the time was wrong.
It read 3:07, frozen.
I touched the glass, and a faint hum moved beneath my fingertips — like a heartbeat.
Then, a whisper.
You shouldn’t have come here, Ivy.
I spun around, heart pounding — but no one was there.
When I turned back, the clock hands had moved.
3:08.
---
By the time I returned to my room, I could still smell Cassian on my hands. I sat by the window, staring out into the rain.
She was unraveling. I could see it in her eyes, the way she flinched at shadows, the way she whispered to herself like she was trying to remember which thoughts were hers.
But what scared me most wasn’t her illness.
It was the feeling that she might not be the one losing her mind.
---
Cassian’s POV
I woke before dawn. The rain had stopped, but the silence felt wrong — stretched, unnatural.
I reached for the lamp, but my hand brushed against paper instead.
A note.
In Ivy’s handwriting.
“Don’t go to the west wing.”
I stared at it for a long time, the letters blurring.
The west wing had been locked for years — ever since the accident. No one spoke of it. No one dared.
But Ivy had been there. She knew.
And as I folded the note, a slow, cold certainty settled in my chest.
Ivy wasn’t just my caretaker.
She was hi
ding something — and it was inside my house.
