Page 42 of Darkest at Dusk (Revenant Roses)

Accepting it, she hesitated. She did not need his confirmation that the blue room had been Catrin’s, that this diary had belonged to her. She felt it in the tense hum that wove between them.

She opened the cover. The flyleaf bore several attempts at the same hand, ink faded with age.

Catrin Caradoc

C. Caradoc

Catrin C ? —

Beneath the names, in small letters, was written the motto: I must be what is wanted. The words crawled across Isabella’s skin.

She turned the page and read aloud the entry.

It was mundane, a recitation of the courses at dinner.

A mention of a new hat. The triviality scraped her.

Had she not written the same in her own youthful journals?

A mention of a ribbon Papa brought her. A description of a new frock. The familiarity unsettled her.

She fanned the pages and let the diary fall open where it would.

They see only what they wish to see. Dead sparrows in the garden, a rabbit curled stiff beneath the lilac bush. Father says it must be a fox, Mother a cat. The fire in the greenhouse? They call it an accident. They never look deeper. They never look at me.

A chill uncurled beneath Isabella’s skin.

It was not only the dead sparrows or the burned greenhouse that made her stomach knot, but the truth pulsing between the lines.

The words bled cruelty, but beneath them lay hunger, for recognition, for consequence.

Catrin had wanted them to see, to recognize the darkness she carried.

Her parents had turned a blind eye, left Catrin alone with her secrets.

Isabella swallowed, her throat tight. She had spent her life hiding her own true nature, hiding her visions, binding her lips closed with Papa’s warnings.

She knew the ache of hiding, of being dismissed.

But Catrin had sharpened that ache into a blade.

She glanced at Rhys, but he only sat staring straight ahead, jaw set, the muscle ticking like he clenched back years of memory.

Again, she let the pages fall open where they willed and read.

I went into the woods today and found a prize wrapped in muslin, tucked in a hollow between the roots of a great oak. I fetched it home and unwrapped it to find a book, split down the spine, its halves sundered. A secret. My secret.

Isabella’s breath caught. A book cleaved in two. Her pulse stuttered as guilt surged. She thought of Papa’s trunk and the grimoire hidden within, her own dark inheritance. It was as if the diary had turned its dark gaze on her.

She glanced at Rhys. He sat very still, fist clenched, knuckles white. Then he reached over, flipped the pages to a new entry, and read aloud.

Washed hair this evening. A rinse with rose water because Aunt says my spirits brighten with scent and all must be cheerful for Will’s sake.

His voice cracked on the last words. Will. The name hung in the air. Isabella’s chest pinched.

Silence descended, deep and thick. Finally, Isabella moved to a new entry and read.

The roses I cut on Tuesday slid in the vase and left the water brown. I threw them and fetched fresh. Pink always looks prettiest against the nursery paper, the thorns hidden by the full blooms. Hidden in plain sight.

A shudder rippled through her. Roses, again. Scent and bloom hiding thorns, masking rot. Pretty, polite, silent. Hide the sharp edges. Hide the truth.

She turned another page.

He coughs harder in the night. I only wish him quiet rest, untroubled and at peace. Worried for the lamp, I used more oil than is proper. Sleep, sweet cousin. Sleep.

A cold weight settled in Isabella’s stomach. The words were not a confession, not quite, and yet they were. More oil than is proper. Her hands trembled as she slapped the diary shut.

Isabella raised her gaze to Rhys. His expression was laced with sorrow. For an instant, she saw not the man beside her but the boy he had been, powerless as sickness and shadow consumed his home.

“You could not have known the depth of her darkness,” she whispered.

“I could,” he replied. “I did. But I did not know how to make others see until it was too late. And even then, my word was not trustworthy, freshly home from St. Jude’s as I was.”

His bitterness cut like glass. Isabella squeezed his hand, fierce, as if she could anchor him back from that edge.

She fanned the pages again, a nervous flick, and froze. Inked in the margin beside a listless note about a broken gate that would not open was a small mark, no larger than a thumbnail. Two semicircles nested together. The symbol from the damaged grimoire in Papa’s trunk.

Her breath caught.

“What is it?” Rhys asked, voice low and taut. His gaze dropped to the page, then rose to hers. “You recognize that mark.” He did not word it as a question.

The room tilted, shadows pressing in. In that instant, Isabella felt certain that such recognition was not hers alone.

Her heart stumbled. For years she had carried her secrets, hidden behind her mask, worn her silence like armor, even with Papa.

Especially with Papa. Secrecy had been her mantra, her duty.

Her fingers trembled as she lifted her hand to Rhys’s face. She traced the hard line of her jaw, feeling the scrape of his morning beard against her fingers. This man had shown her his wounds, laid bare his own monstrous truth.

And he had looked into the dark with her and said, yes, I see it too .

Heart pounding, she held his gaze and said, “I recognize it. As do you.” The words felt like chains snapping.

“Tell me,” he said, not a command, a request. It struck her then that he could have forced this revelation long ago.

Just as she had used the key for Papa’s trunk to unlock the brass box in the library, he could have used his matching key to unlock Papa’s trunk.

He could have stolen her secrets, discovered the grimoire long ago. But he had waited for her to choose.

In that waiting, she saw the difference between ruin and trust, between Papa’s fierce guardianship and Rhys’s fraught restraint.

She smiled, rueful. “One of us knows to respect the bounds of privacy.”

He laughed, low and smooth, but his hand closed around hers, thumb stroking the back as if he knew what this cost her.

Setting the diary aside, she let her fingers hover a moment on the calfskin cover.

The girlish script within spoke of roses and oil and being what others wanted.

A shiver ran through her. Had she not lived the same way, in her own fashion?

Smiling when she wished to scream. Swallowing words so no one would call her mad.

The thought of kinship with a monster chilled her, but also sharpened her resolve.

She would not be hollowed into obedience.

She would not let silence be her inheritance.

She would be seen.

Her eyes lifted to Rhys’s. She was seen.

A book, split down the spine, its halves sundered. A secret. My secret. Catrin’s secret was not hers alone. It never had been.

“I will show you,” Isabella said, pulse hammering.

They dressed without ceremony. When he helped her with her clothing, he did it with deft fingers, and the brief warmth of his knuckles at her hip felt like a promise kept.

“Ready?” he asked.

She touched Papa’s key at her breast. “Yes.”