Page 44 of Ashwood (Wallflowers and Demons #1)

GHOSTLY THINGS

GAbrIEL

T he library is quiet when Dorian steps in. I await at the hearth, with one arm draped across the mantel, a decanter of brandy untouched beside me

Her Grace, the duchess takes a seat nearby in a high-backed chair, her hands resting lightly in her lap. She’s learned the art of court stillness quickly. Pale but composed, sharp eyes are concealed beneath the softness.

“I have news,” I say. “I believe I have found our man.”

Dorian straightens. Katherine leans in just slightly. “Truly? You’re certain?”

“As certain as I can be, given the circumstances.”

I lower myself into the chair across from her and remove a folded parchment from my coat. I don’t hand it over. Not yet.

“His name is Mr. Cecil Bellamy. Longtime butler to the late Dowager Duchess.” I pause. “He’s been quiet, careful. But not careful enough.”

Dorian’s brow furrows. “What evidence?”

I nod. “I visited the families of the victims. Spoke to servants, apprentices, and grooms. Over time, a pattern emerged. Each of the women who vanished had interactions with the Ashwood staff — not at the castle, but at the dressmaker’s in the village.”

Katherine tilts her head. “What?”

“Yes,” I say. “The owner of Madame Belle’s. She’s observant, discreet. She mentioned Mr. Bellamy had been in several times over the last year, always with unusual requests. Bits of fabric he’d bring in to match. But nary an order. He claimed he was sampling wares for her Grace.”

Dorian’s eyes narrow. “And she believed him?”

“She didn’t ask questions. She needed the coin. But what caught her attention was that he was seen talking to both women, before the unfortunate demise of both women.”

“He was in attendance at the ball to provide additional staff support.”

Katherine says nothing for a moment. Then, quietly: “Did he say anything else? Was he alone in his deeds?”

“Possible,” I say mildly. “We cannot know more until I bring him in for questioning.”

I let the silence settle.

Katherine frowns delicately. “But no bodies?”

“No bodies. Not there.”

I reach into the leather satchel at my side.

It thumps faintly as I set it on the table between us. Dorian draws closer. Katherine watches, her posture elegant, unshaken.

“This was found inside Mr. Bellamy’s coach when my men pulled it over to speak with him,” I say. “Hidden in a box sealed with pitch and salt. He does not know I took it from him when his gaze was elsewhere. To him, it has simply gone missing.”

I undo the latch and lift the lid.

Inside, cushioned in linen and wax paper, sits a glass jar. Clear. Clean. And filled nearly to the top with amber-coloured spirit.

Suspended within floats the unmistakable curve of human flesh — a severed breast, pale and bloated. The nipple darkened, the edges puckered where it was carved from the bone.

Dorian recoils and exhales through his nose. “Christ.”

I nod.

“I believe he is falling into madness. If we collect him, he will present no further risk to the ladies of the court.”

I lean back, calm. “I’ve arranged for him to be arrested and transported to the local gaol on the morrow on Ashwood Island. I’ll conduct the final interview before we set sail and he’s handed over to the Crown.”

Dorian nods once. “Good.”

Katherine presses her fingers to her temple. “How awful. To think he was under the Dowager’s roof all this time.”

“She’s not implicated,” I say carefully. “There’s no reason to believe she knew.”

I fold the parchment and slip it away.

“We’ll present the findings in the morning. I’ll speak with the Prince. With your leave, I’d like to finalise the report, then return for his transport.”

“Do what you must,” Dorian says. “Leave any important documents on my desk. T’will be signed at first light.”

“Thank you.” I rise, nod once, and turn to leave.

As I walk out, I don’t look back.

Eventually, Katherine speaks. “Gruesome. But that’s your evidence, then?”

“Yes,” I answer. “That’s my evidence.”

I replace the jar and the satchel shut.

Dorian runs a hand down his face. “God above.”

Katherine rises, brushing invisible dust from her skirts. “I trust you’ll be safe transporting him.”

“I will.”

“And the Prince?” she asks. “Will he be told? ”

“He’ll be told what he needs to hear. We move at first light,” I say evenly. “There’s no need for theatrics. He won’t run.”

Dorian nods.

She offers no protest when I rise and bid them both good night and gives me a tight, graceful nod. “Then I suppose this nightmare is nearly at its end.”

She turns and glides from the room, every step smooth, practised. As if she hadn’t just stared into the face of madness without blinking.

Hours later, I wait beneath the hedgerow near the edge of the townhouse garden, a cloak drawn over my frame and boots tucked in the soil. My breath plumes in the cold. No dogs. No patrols. Just the hum of Ashwood Island at rest.

A coach arrives shortly before three.

Unmarked. Small. Drawn by one dapple-grey horse.

The driver doesn’t dismount. But the passenger does.

She wears Katherine’s silhouette. Same pale gloves. Same fur-lined cloak. She walks quickly, deliberately—head down, movements crisp. No lantern. No escort. The staff don’t wake. No one sees her go.

Except me.

I follow from a distance. Not too close. Not yet.

The coach rolls over the cobbled lane toward the estate’s smaller harbour district, where the older manors keep their shutters drawn and the wind off the water howls against the stone. It turns at the little fork I know too well—right where the Dowager’s side house still stands.

A place no one has visited in weeks.

I dismount early and go on foot.

From behind the iron railing, I watch as she steps down, walks the path, and knocks on the door. Not softly. Like she belongs there. The housekeeper answers. No questions. No confusion. Just a nod, and the door swings wide.

They curtsy let her in.

I wait thirty seconds, maybe less. Then I approach the front step, keeping my footfalls light on the stone. I arrive minutes after she disappears at the door.

The door hasn’t latched.

It opens under my hand without resistance.

Inside, all is dark. Not even a candle lit in the front hall. The house is silent.

I step inside, close the door behind me, and draw my blade. Descending into the manor’s lower quarters, I count her steps by sound.

No light above. Only flickers below.

The silence is deeper down here — damp stone, old wood. I follow their path until it vanishes into the servants’ corridors.

Then, deeper.

The smell hits first.

Old blood. Stale sweat. Preservatives .

The corridor ends at a rusted door. It creaks open just a sliver — enough.

I am beneath the house. It is a sub-cellar built for wartime, made of stone floors, iron hooks. Shelves.

And bodies.

Dozens of them. Not all whole.

It is then, Anna turns, wearing her like a fine silk. The illusion is perfect — face, voice, even posture. But there’s a flaw in the mask now. A crack behind the eyes.

She doesn’t flinch.

Only offers a tired, elegant smile. “You should not be here, Gabriel,” she says. “If we are both caught, Dorian will be most displeased. Especially when the Dowager returns and finds us in her house.”

She glances at me sidelong, still calculating, still searching for a card to play. “He is a jealous husband, as it stands.”

I draw my pistol and aim it squarely at her heart.

“Enough,” I say. “It’s over, Anna. Take off the Duchess’s face.”

KATHERINE

“We were never equals,” the Dowager’s voice drips venom as she circles me.

“And that is no failing, child. It is a blessing. Don’t you see?

You are not shackled by the mundane chains of equality.

You have a purpose far greater than that.

You, Katherine, are the salvation I was waiting for.

Brought here for me, to unravel my tangled problems.”

Her eyes gleam cruelly. “And now… now you will die for me. Won’t you, Katherine?”

I laugh then. “I have been surrounded all my life by poison and malevolent desires disguised behind masks of saccharine loyalty. But you—” I whirl on her, eyes blazing — “I was wrong. Those who only speak when they want something, when they stand to gain do not care for me. They do not care about anyone. Not really.”

My voice goes hard, shuddering with fury and exhaustion. “They would only care if I were aflame, burning alive with gold sewn beneath my skirts. Only then would I be valuable.”

The Dowager rattles as she chuckles. “Oh, my dear, you are beginning to understand. That spark of fire in you is both a curse and a weapon. Use it wisely.”

I swallow hard. And yet… despite everything, despite his bloodlust and monstrous hunger, Dorian never lied about who he was when it mattered most.

Not truly.

I grit my teeth and drop my voice to a deadly whisper. “The monster was never Dorian. It was you all along, Mother.”

Her laughter echoes in the cold chamber. “You think you have it all figured out? Let me tell you something about that fire—the night the Dorian’s chamber of horrors burned to cinders. I was there.”

Her words slam into me.

But there is no time for recovery.

The door creaks open and a guest arrives.

The cold stones beneath my knees bite into my flesh, but I do not move from my chained position at the wall.

Anna stands behind me, whispering with that poisonous smile, “Watch, Katherine. Watch how you become what you fear.”

Red velvet drapes are pulled open and before me, a woman lies sprawled across a stained chaise lounge, pale, trembling through parted lips garishly painted in red. It is the maid.

Her limbs shake with terror as a masked man approaches.

“Call me Dorian,” the man growls.

I am sick to my stomach by their charade.

The woman tries to scramble away, but he grabs her wrists, his nails digging into soft skin that turns white from pressure as he forces her back. His hands roam with bruising intent, tearing at silks and lace, ripping buttons from their seams. The woman gasps as he drags her down onto the chaise.