Page 3 of Darkest at Dusk (Revenant Roses)

With a clarity that came too late, he thought of the way the man had said, “ swallow her whole .” Not break . Not harm . Swallow . A word with a throat and entirely different implications. He filed it away with the others.

His plan redrew itself: offer of employment again, but sweeter…

wages paid in advance, the restoration of a library long starved of attention.

If Barrett still refused, there were other avenues to consider: debts, habits, collectors.

He would not use force. He would only invite necessity to do its work.

Villainy wore many names, and of them, collector of rents was one the world forgave.

He would make immediate inquiries of the owner of the house that Barrett rented, discover what price he must offer to purchase it outright.

He ought to leave London now and let things cool. He ought to think only of locks and shut doors, of the ash-stink that crawled from the north wing at night.

He ought not to think of dark hair and dark eyes, the precise tilt of a chin at the window, the way the curtain had allowed a slivered glimpse and no more.

The air to his left went a degree colder; he did not turn. He had learned long ago not to acknowledge their presence.

Setting off once more, he favored his left leg as little as pride allowed.

The ache sang along the old burn scars, a useful hurt, keeping a tally.

He would have both the woman and the other half of the book, one way or another.

He would empty his house of the thing that had brought so much death to his door, had made a pyre of his father and called it kinship.

If the only key to that lock was a living one, if Isabella Barrett was the mechanism by which his goals could be achieved, then he would arrange it. Gently, if he could. Otherwise—not.

“Who was he?” Isabella asked as she joined her father at the breakfast table. He was already seated, a steaming cup of black coffee clutched between trembling hands, his breakfast of shirred eggs, ham, and toast barely touched.

As he lifted the cup to his mouth, his fingers shook so badly that the liquid sloshed over the rim and onto the tablecloth, a dark blotch marring the pristine white.

She took a sip of her tea, forcing her tone to remain soft and even as she prodded him. “Papa?”

His gaze remained on his plate rather than lifting to meet her own.

“No one.” The words came too quickly. “He is no one.”

She set her cup down with exaggerated care. That was not an answer, it was an erasure.

“He is not no one ,” she said, the sharpness of her growing concern leaking into her tone. “You were in the street shouting like a fishmonger at someone .”

He exhaled on a ragged sigh then pushed his plate farther away, the silverware clattering. Isabella narrowed her eyes.

An icy hand settled on her shoulder, sending a chill spreading through her like frost spidering across a windowpane.

The hand was not real.

And yet, it pressed cold through flesh and bone.

Breath, damp and frigid, touched the curve of her ear. The hem of a translucent, colorless skirt wavered at the edge of her vision. She glanced up into a face that was the color of lead then back down to her plate.

Too slow. Papa caught it.

“What are you looking at?” His voice was sharp, frayed at the edges.

“I was not looking at anything,” Isabella said, her fingers tightening around her fork. “I was looking away from you in exasperation.”

He did not smile. He knew the shape of the lie. Suspicion hovered, but he let it pass. Isabella lowered her gaze to the tangible things on the table…bread, tea, the gleam of cutlery.

The clang of a door slamming shut. Cold iron on her palm.

Tap…tap…tap.

Never say it. Never show it.

Lessons learned in a whitewashed corridor with a door that locked from the outside. She had trained herself not to look when the ghosts glided into her line of sight, not to flinch when their fingers, frigid and clawed, brushed against her skin, leaving trails of icy dread.

But sometimes, when she was not wholly focused on not looking, she did look as she had just now.

Isabella sighed and took another sip of tea, then reached across the table and pushed her father’s plate back toward him. With a soft exhalation, he resumed his meal. The woman floated to the corner and stayed there.

Only when her father was done, the last morsel swallowed, did Isabella say, “Who is he, Papa? Why were you so angry?”

“He is a scoundrel.”

Isabella arched a brow. “So you indicated with a variety of fascinating words. Why was he here?”

Papa hesitated. “He wanted something I am not willing to give him,” Papa said, his voice rough, his mouth turning down, his shoulders slumping forward.

“One of your books?” That was the only possibility that made any sense at all. Papa was ferociously protective of his collection.

“The books are not—” His gaze flicked to hers, then away. He clutched the edge of the table as if to anchor himself. “Something more precious than that.”

The words sent a sharp, uneasy pang through her chest.

Papa grabbed Isabella’s hand. “If you see him again, do not speak to him, do not acknowledge him.” His grip grew uncomfortably tight. “Do you understand, Isabella?”

He sounded desperate and old and afraid.

Widening her eyes, she made her voice sincere. “I will not speak to that man. If I see him, if he approaches me, I will not engage. There, is that better?”

Even as she said the words, she knew them for the lies they were. If the stranger were before her now, she would not only speak to him, but she would demand answers.

Papa let go of her hand and stared at her in silence.

“What is it, Papa?” she asked gently. “What has distressed you so?”

He made a strangled sound and buried his fingers in the wiry, white hair that surrounded his head like a coronet, leaving the top of his scalp bare and shiny.

“Was it a mistake?” he whispered, his voice raw. “Did I make a mistake? I thought I did right. But now, I do not know. I do not know.”

Alarmed, Isabella jumped to her feet. She moved to stand at her father’s back, resting both hands on his shoulders.

“Papa, tell me what this is about.”

He turned his head and looked up at her over his shoulder. She was horrified to see there were tears in his eyes.

“The books…the secrets—” He cut himself off and shook his head. “You’re a good girl, Isa. Always a good girl,” he said, patting her hand. He held her gaze for a long moment. “But what if I was wrong?”

“Wrong about what?” Isabella asked with a flash of both fear and confusion. And then, recalling the moment when both Papa and the man had seemed to be talking about her, she whispered, “Wrong about me?”

Papa rose to his feet and enveloped her in a hug, the action so unexpected that she fell silent.

He smelled of tobacco and coffee and the tonic he used in a failed attempt to smooth the remaining strands of his unruly hair. She closed her eyes and hugged him back. His ribs beneath her hands were sharper than they had been a month ago. The weight of him, too little now, made her throat close.

After a moment, he released her and stepped away, offering a strained, exhausted smile.

“I love you, my girl. You know that. And if I made a mistake or two over the years, you know it came from a place of love, from my need to keep you safe?”

His voice cracked, brittle as old parchment, before dissolving into silence.

“Papa,” Isabella whispered. “Why are you saying these things? You are frightening me. Are you unwell? Shall I summon the doctor?” She rested the back of her hand against his forehead but found no indication of fever.

“No, no.” He shook his head, caught both her hands in his and gave them a light shake. “Not necessary. Just an old man being foolish.” He glanced at her abandoned toast then forced a smile. “Sit. Finish your breakfast, my dear. I insist.”

Befuddled, Isabella stood watching as her father left the room, muttering under his breath, snatches of his words carrying to her. “She was meant to be safe…It was never supposed to come to this… Maybe I should let her read them… I cannot… no, I must not…”

The sound of his footsteps grew softer, fading down the hall. And then a pause. She heard him draw a single, ragged breath before he whispered, “Forgive me,” so faint she thought she imagined it.

Almost did she chase after him, demand an explanation for his odd words and behavior. Almost. But he had already made it clear that he would not give her the answers she sought.

And so, she let him go, listening to his footsteps on the stairs then the sound of the door to his bedchamber closing.

She turned away from the doorway to find the woman in the corner watching her with hollow, burning eyes, fathomless dark pits in her translucent gray face. Those eyes conveyed both hunger and expectation.

A different sort of chill crept in slowly now, curling through Isabella’s limbs, crawling up her spine like icy fingers. The cold pressed in, claiming her space, her breath. A silence, absolute and unfamiliar, roared in her ears. The wraith’s smile widened.

And then, she vanished. The place where she had stood darker now, as if she had left behind a shadow that swallowed all it touched.