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Marjory opened her mouth, then closed it again, her fingers twisting in her lap. Finally, she exhaled. “Mark… he wasn’t himself these last few weeks. I thought it was just a passing distraction, but…” She trailed off, shaking her head. “I should have asked him more questions.”

“He changed, Bridget,” she said softly. “At first, I thought it was just excitement over some discovery. But then he started waking in the middle of the night, poring over that book. He wasn’t just interested, he was obsessed with it.”

Bridget frowned. “Did he ever tell you why?”

Marjory swallowed hard. “I asked him.” She hesitated and swallowed hard. “He said, ‘Some things are better left buried’.”

“Did he tell you anything else? Even something small?” Bridget asked softly.

Marjory’s eyes glistened as she shook her head. “He said he needed to meet someone, ‘someone important.’ I thought it might have been Lord Barrington. He’d been spending more time in Mark’s company of late.”

“Yes,” Bridget said, her heart sinking as the pieces began to align. “Did he seem frightened?”

“Not frightened,” Marjory said after a moment’s thought.

“More… determined. As if he had made up his mind about something. But there was an edge to it. I told him he should take care, but he dismissed me. Said it wasn’t my concern.

” She bit her lip, her shoulders trembling.

“I thought he was angry with me. So I rode ahead. I didn’t want to fight anymore.

When I turned back to look for him, he was gone. Just gone.”

Bridget reached over and took Marjory’s hand, holding it tightly. The warmth of her friend’s fingers was a stark contrast to the cold fear curling in her stomach. “Marjory, when you rode ahead, did you see anyone else on the course? Even in the distance?”

Marjory frowned, her gaze growing distant as she tried to recall. “There was someone,” she said slowly. “I didn’t see their face, but… there was a sound.”

“What kind of sound?” Bridget pressed gently.

Marjory swallowed. “A metallic click. Or at least, I think it was. I thought it was tack or a loose stirrup, but now…” She shivered, shaking her head. “I don’t know. I keep replaying it in my head, but maybe I imagined it. Maybe it was nothing.”

Bridget nodded, her heart aching for her friend even as her mind raced.

A metallic click. A sound so small, so easily dismissed, yet it had stayed with Marjory.

A warning? A weapon? Or something else entirely?

“Marjory, you’ve been so brave to tell me this.

Alastair was a dear friend to my family, and I promise you, we will find out what happened. ”

Marjory’s grip on Bridget’s hand tightened briefly before she let go, leaning back against the chaise with a weary sigh. “Just tell me one thing, Bridget.” Her voice was barely audible. “Did he suffer?”

Bridget swallowed hard, willing her voice to remain steady. “I don’t believe so. It would have been quick.”

Marjory closed her eyes, a single tear slipping down her cheek. “Thank you.”

Bridget rose, more determined than ever, as she left the conservatory. Alastair had been silenced, and the key to uncovering the truth now lay in the shadows of his final moments. Whatever secrets he had been carrying, they would not remain hidden for long.

She turned toward the hall, her fingers curling around the parchment that she hid in her pocket.

The paper was rough against her skin, a stark reminder of the man’s grasp.

He had fought to keep this. She would fight to understand why.

Whatever message he had died trying to deliver, she knew she could not unravel it alone.

Her steps quickened. There was only one person she could trust with this, only one who would take it as seriously as she did.

Bridget found the captain in the dimly lit corridor, his brow furrowed in thought. The death of a friend was never easy. At the sight of her, his expression shifted, concern flickering in his gaze.

“Bridget,” he greeted, his voice low. “Is Marjory—?”

“She’s holding on,” Bridget said. Then, without preamble, she reached into her dress and pulled free the scrap of parchment, holding it out to him. “I found this.”

His eyes sharpened as he took the crumpled fragment, carefully smoothing it between his fingers.

His thumb skimmed over the faint markings, his jaw tightening.

The ink had bled in places, but a few letters still remained: ‘gton.’ A place?

A name? A chill skated down her spine. For a fraction of a second, something flickered in his gaze.

Recognition? Disbelief? But it was gone before she could place it.

Though worn and stained, the faint outline of something, a sigil? A crest? lingered on the surface.

“Where did you find this?”

Bridget stared at him. “Alastair was holding it. Tightly. As if he wanted someone to find it.”

He stared at her.

Bridget lifted her chin slightly. For a moment, she hesitated, the vulnerability of trust pressing against her ribs. But she did trust him. “Help me understand what it means.”

For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, with a quiet nod, he folded the parchment. “May I keep this?”

She nodded at once.

He tucked it into the inner pocket of his coat. “Then let’s find out what he means.”

The distant chime of the clock reminded them both of the lateness of the afternoon. Bridget exhaled, only then realizing how close they stood. She inhaled again, steeling herself.

“We should return to the scene,” she murmured. “We must bring Alastair home.”

He studied her for a beat before nodding. “Barrington will also want to go over everything before we move him.”

Bridget forced herself to suppress a shiver.

They weren’t just retracing Alastair’s final steps.

They were stepping into the unknown, into something far more dangerous than they had anticipated.

They would return to the clearing in the woods, to the place where Alastair had drawn his last breath.

And perhaps, this time, the dark would not let them walk away empty-handed.

Not if she had anything to say about it.