Page 46 of Ashwood (Wallflowers and Demons #1)

MIRACULOUS THINGS

Esteemed Readers of the Unknown Voice,

It is a curious thing when one is under the eye of society’s endless judgments — when every step, word, and breath is transformed into kindling. Some have grown accustomed to it. Others survive. Though I must ask, what gives anyone the right to decide whose misery is worthier?

I have read with great interest the columns of the Primrose. How noble, you may think, to be so honest with the world, yet one must question who benefits from these “truths,” and at what cost? Who decides what is fit for consumption, what truths are to be buried, and what truths will be ignored?

The Primrose is not a pillar of virtue. It is a puppet show, and we are the marionettes. We line their pockets with our misery, and they will smile and call it virtue.

The Primrose never wrote of Lady Carrington’s deeper kindness. They wrote of her weakness, her indecency, and secrets she couldn’t keep locked away. As if at the end of her life, her thoughts were of the ton and not of family or perhaps even, survival against those who wished her harm.

One ought to take care in passing judgment, for seldom is the conscience entirely unspotted — even the virtuous Primrose. It is important to remember that when one gazes upon the world, it gazes back.

But I digress. You do not have to trust me either, for I am merely one face inside the many.

Lady Isabella Carrington was my friend. She enjoyed her afternoon tea with two bites of chocolate and a cucumber sandwich, and on Sundays, visited the local women with food, clothes and tinctures, always gracious.

She is survived by her mastiff, Sir Reginald and her husband, Lord Edward Carrington, the Earl of Somerset.

Yours,

A Watcher of the Truth

KATHERIN E

“A re you alright?” I ask quietly.

“You are ravishing tonight,” he whispers into my ear. A hand extends and I take it and we travel the staircase together.

Dinner passed quickly.

Dorian didn’t speak much. He sat next to me instead and watched me more than he did his plate.

Upstairs, he helps me out of my gown. He takes great care with the buttons. There is hesitation in his hands, though his expression remains composed. He folds the dress and lays it on the chair without a word.

“I don’t want to send you away Katherine, I want you to stay. To live here, amongst the orchids your heart desires.”

Arms wrap me from behind and he kisses me there, lips stained over my neck.

His hands come to rest at my waist.

“Lie down.”

I do as asked, but move to reach for his collar. He catches my hands inside his and brings them to his lips, presses a kiss to my fingers and whispers, “Please.”

So I let him.

After, he rises without dressing fully, his shirt loose, and the buttons undone. He rings the bell and Mrs. Grange enters with a silver tray.

“It’s something new,” he says as she lays it on my lap. “Hot chocolate from Paris.”

I take a careful sip. It is rich, unfamiliar and warm in my chest.

“Do you like it?”

“Yes,” I nod. “Very much.”

He smiles.

“I’ve left my notebook downstairs.” He brushes his fingers down my cheek. “I’ll return shortly.”

I nod, suddenly drowsy. It has been a long evening. He kisses the top of my head, lingering a moment. Then he is gone and the door clicks shut.

But the heat of the drink, the weight of the covers — everything slows me. My limbs are heavy. My eyes too.

I don’t remember falling asleep.

The next time I wake, it is in darkness.

The fire has long since gone out in the hearth. The room is cold. I reach across the bed and touch linen, still crisp and folded.

“Dorian?”

After pulling on my robe, I check the corridors, library, kitchens and the parlour, but the house is silent.

The flame on the candle goes sideways as I step into the hall. A draft rolls inside and my fingers begin to shake. The sconces burn as I inspect the study. His notebook is closed on the desk.

My neck prickles.

Something is amiss.

I walk faster down the stairs, through the hall, into the library. No sign of him. Not in the music room. Not in the drawing room. No footsteps.

And then a feeling blooms in my chest — not panic yet.

A terrible feeling that makes me sick.

Back through the lower halls I traverse, calling his name, but no one answers. The house is too quiet. It suffocates me.

I find Mrs Grange crouched on the floor near the kitchen stairs, clutching her apron. Her face is wet.

“Where is he?”

She doesn’t speak. She shakes her head and turns away.

Dread hangs low in my gut as I push past her and jog toward the old wing — the one with the locked door that leads below the castle. The heavy iron latch had been fastened from the inside.

“Dorian!” I shout. I pound my fists against the wood. “Open this!”

Nothing.

“Dorian, answer me—”

I hear something then.

A wet, sloshing.

My stomach churns.

He plans to…

I…

No!

“Dorian!”

I run to the storage hall and find a sledgehammer by the tool bench.

I will not lose him.

I refuse.

I drag it back. It takes everything I have but I heave it across and strike the door once.

My muscles burn. They ache.

Again.

Twice.

Again.

Each time comes with a jarring smash, but the door doesn’t crack, nor shift and the hinges didn’t bend. Alchemical reinforcement.

“Please,” I beg, with my fingers splayed against the door, “please don’t do this. I-I—”

Despair takes me and I collapse to the floor.

My fists hit until my arms gave out.

I scream until my voice breaks.

“Dorian!”

“Your Grace,” a soft voice whispers from down the hall. I glance up to see William standing there. “You cannot stay there.”

“Stop him,” I sob. “Help me save him.”

He frowns. “I’m sorry, Your Grace, but I cannot. He does not allow it.”

It is then that the sound of boots comes behind him. I see him.

Wexmoore .

“He’s in there,” I said, breathless. “He’s done something, I don’t know what—”

Wexmoore looks at the door, then at me, then pulls a small chain of keys from his coat.

“Stand back,” he instructs.

But I do not listen. I hover until then licks clicks and the latch drops.

The door finally opens.

I don’t wait, I run inside, calling out his name, with my temples pulsating with terror.

“Dorian!”

A bitter smell hits first.

Then, I find Dorian is at his desk, slumped forward in his chaise. One hand is on the table, the other dangling from the side of the chair. A glass vial rests next to him. Empty.

Panic arrives.

“No!”

I run to him. “No, no, no, no!”

I grab his shoulders and shake him. His skin is warm. His is head lolled to one side. His eyes are shut.

“What have you done?” I whisper, over and over. “What did you do—what did you take?”

Wexmoore steps forward, his mouth set into a grim line.

And then, Dorian trembles.

His back arches, bones grinding and his skin turns crimson red. With a guttural cry, his eyes burst open enough to drive me back on instinct. I slide on the heels of my feet as Wexmoore pulls me behind him.

But Dorian doesn’t charge.

He rises slowly, each movement measured and deliberate. He groans as he straightens and steadies himself.

“Katherine,” he growls.

My breath catches.

He has never called me that before in Demon form.

He turns toward the polished brass panel behind the desk, staring into the reflection of his monstrous form, his blackened eyes and his gigantic form.

“It worked,” he whispers.

I take a cautious step forward.

“Are you in control of your faculties?”

He nods. “All of it. The rage. The hunger…they’re still inside me. But I…”

He glances at me. “ I am no longer drowning.”

My gaze falls to the empty vial.

“That wasn’t poison.”

“No.”

“It was the final formula.”

“Yes.”

He glances at Wexmoore and then back at me.

“You shouldn’t have opened the door.”

“You’re still you,” I whisper, shocked.

“I don’t know what I am anymore,” he admits.

Reaching out, place my hand firmly on his arm and his monstrosity evaporates until he is standing naked and a man again .

“I know exactly what you are. I’m looking at you. You’re Dorian Storm, Duke of Ashwood.”

KATHERINE

The forest is quiet.

But nothing here in Ashwood is safe.

Not anymore.

I stand before the hallway door.

The one that separates me from him.

I can hear the creak of timber in the walls, and the distant hush of wind brushing the old windows. Somewhere far off, an owl gives a single cry. The Castle holds its breath like I do, waiting for something to change.

Or to begin.

My fingers grip around the brass handle and I turn it slowly. The door to the antechamber opens with a muted groan.

Inside, the fire is dying.

So I walk across the room, over old rugs and worn floorboards, until I reach the hearth. I crouch, take a log from the basket, and feed it to the flames. Sparks leap as it ignites. The wood hisses as it catches and I stay there, watching the blaze gather strength.

Behind me, there is silence.

But I feel him.

Always, I feel him.

“Dorian,” I say, as quietly as the smoke that trails up the chimney.

“Sorry I am late,” he replies. “We travelled further into the forest, more than expected.”

He leans in the doorway between the bedroom and the connecting room, his shirt loose at the collar, and his sleeves rolled.

But he stands tall.

A changed man.

Not just his body — though that too, has undeniably changed.

“You left the dinner early,” I say and prepare our usual nightcap.

“So did you.”

I grin and sway towards him with his scotch already poured. The robe I wear slides against my skin, light as air. I don’t tighten it.

“The forest?”

“Still burning,” he says. “But we’ve bought ourselves time. Wexmoore believes it’s enough.”

“Do you?”

He hesitates. “I don’t know what I believe. There’s still much we do not understand.”

I cross the room. My bare feet make no sound. The heat from the fire licks up my spine as I step closer to him. Close enough to see the fine veins at his throat, the twitch of muscle in his jaw. His eyes track mine.

There is no fear in them.

Only restraint.