Chapter 3

Twenty iron spades tore into the frozen earth.

Duchess Arabella stood at the edge of the abandoned rose garden, pulling her fur coat tight. She had dragged every remaining male servant out of bed.

"Keep digging!" she shrieked. "Tear up every root!"

The men hacked at the frost for hours, unearthing rusted tin boxes and shattered porcelain before tossing them aside.

Then a shovel hit something hollow.

A footman stumbled backward. A dirt-caked skull rolled out of the clay. Beneath it, pale, cracked ribs jutted from the mud.

Arabella let out a breathless laugh. She turned to a guard. "Get the Duke. Tell him we found her."

Lucian arrived minutes later. He stepped into the garden, his dark coat brushing the dead thorns. He didn't look at the skeleton.

He crossed the dirt in two strides. His gloved hand shot out and clamped around Arabella’s throat.

She choked, her boots lifting off the grass as he drove her backward.

"Do not test my patience," Lucian’s voice dropped to a lethal bass. "Do not hand me ten-year-old bones. I am looking for a living woman."

Arabella’s face turned purple. She clawed at his glove, mouth opening and closing wordlessly.

Lucian shoved her into the mud.

"Stall me with a corpse again," Lucian said, looking at the terrified servants. "And I will bury every single person on this estate alive."

Martha gripped my wrist so hard her nails broke my skin. We were both shaking. I pictured Agnes swinging from the chandelier. Waiting meant death.

I stepped forward before I could stop myself.

"Lord Lucian." My voice cracked, but I forced my chin up. "We scrub floors and wash linen. We don't know who you're looking for. Give us something. Anything."

The guards raised their rifles.

Lucian stared at me. He reached inside his coat, pulled out a charred bundle of fabric, and threw it at my feet.

"Match it," he said, turning on his heel.

I dropped to my knees. It was a vintage silk corset. The boning was snapped, the entire back half scorched black by fire.

Back in the sitting room, Martha spread the burnt corset across the table. Arabella sat beside it, pressing a wet towel to her bruised neck.

Martha picked up the corset and held it against Arabella’s torso. She stopped.

"Madam," Martha whispered. "Look at the sizing."

The narrow waist. The distinct bust. It matched Arabella’s proportions perfectly.

"And your hand." Martha pointed at Arabella’s right hand. "When you fell off that horse as a teenager... the reins tore open the webbing of your thumb."

I looked. A faded white scar cut right between her thumb and index finger.

"Madam..." Martha swallowed. "What if Lucian isn't looking for a maid? He brought out a corset with your measurements."

Arabella lowered the towel. She stared at the silk, her breathing quickening. A breathless laugh escaped her lips.

"Martha. Scrape the hot soot from the fireplace and mix it with water." Arabella ripped open the collar of her nightgown. "Edith, fetch a needle. I need a cross on my chest."

It took twenty agonizing minutes of blood and hot soot. Arabella gritted her teeth as Martha stabbed a crude black cross into her pale skin.

When it was done, she wiped the blood, doused herself in rose perfume, threw on a lace robe, and marched toward Lucian’s bedroom.

Martha and I hid in the shadows of the staircase landing.

The corridor was dead silent. Five minutes. Ten. I let out a long breath, thinking she had actually succeeded.

Then came a crash.

The master bedroom doors flew open. Two guards threw Arabella onto the stone floor.

Her lace robe was torn. Her cheek was rapidly swelling, her pinned hair unraveling into a tangled mess.

The lead guard sneered. "The Duke says you have one day left. Produce the living woman, or you go to the military dungeon."

The doors slammed shut. Arabella stayed on the floor, choking on a humiliated sob before scrambling up and fleeing back to her wing.

Martha and I ran to the servants' quarters and locked the door. We climbed into our narrow bed. Martha cried silently into her pillow.

I couldn't sleep. My mind raced in the dark.

Lucian knew the burn scar and the tattoo. He kept a burnt corset from ten years ago—one that matched Arabella's bodily frame perfectly.

It wasn't Arabella, but the sizing didn't lie. He was looking for a woman with her exact build, who lived in this house during the fire ten years ago. Someone deeply connected to the Duchess.

A cold realization hit me.

Only one person left on this estate survived the east wing fire. The old head housekeeper, Margaret. She lost her mind that night and had been locked in the abandoned tower attic ever since.

I threw off the blankets, grabbing the stolen iron key and the charred corset from Arabella's discarded pile.

"Edith, what are you doing?" Martha hissed.

"Finding out who we're actually looking for."

I slipped through the dark corridors and climbed the dust-choked stairs of the west tower. The air grew cold, smelling of stale urine and rot.

I shoved the key into the padlock. It clicked.

I pushed the door open.

Margaret crouched in the corner, her white hair dragging on the floorboards as she rocked back and forth.

I wiped my sweating palms, stepped forward, and held the burnt silk under the moonlight.

Margaret stopped rocking.

She stared at the charred fabric. Her cloudy eyes dilated in terror.

She let out a blood-curdling scream, grabbing two fistfuls of her own hair.

"She's back!"