Page 4 of Sweet Venom Of Time (Blade of Shadows #6)
Chapter Three
ELIZABETH
I traced the intricate carvings on my mahogany bedpost, following each swirl and whirl as they twisted into delicate points.
My fingers lingered on the cool wood before I pushed myself up from the sea of silk sheets that had become a shroud for my sorrow.
Morning light filtered through the sheer drapes, casting a soft glow on the ornate wallpaper adorned with golden fleur-de-lis.
My bedroom was a sanctuary of luxury within our vast estate, yet no opulence could thaw the bitter chill of desolation that clung to me.
My gaze drifted to the vacant chairs by the small table near the fireplace.
Just weeks ago, laughter and jest had filled those seats—my brothers, so full of life, their voices carrying through the room.
Now, silence reigned, broken only by the occasional crackle of the fire my maid had lit to chase away the dampness of an English morning.
They had gone to a party, an evening of revelry and indulgence—and it had become their end.
Poison, the staff had whispered when they thought no one was listening.
But who? Why? The unanswered questions festered, their weight pressing against my ribs like iron shackles.
Memories swarmed me; each one was a ghost haunting the corners of my room, offering fleeting solace from the crushing isolation that threatened to smother me.
And then there was Father. His silence had become a barren echo in the wake of my brothers’ deaths, a reminder that his love had never been mine to claim.
They had been his heirs, his champions, the pride of our family’s enigmatic Timehunter legacy—a legacy that felt more like a curse than an honor.
But his withdrawal had begun long before their demise, back when Mother still lingered between this world and the next.
Her final days were seared into my soul—the image of her struggling for breath as consumption ravaged her body, her frail hand trembling in mine.
They had all slipped away one by one, leaving me adrift in the vast, suffocating emptiness of what remained.
When I was barely a teen, my mother had been confined to her bed, swallowed by the sterile white linens that seemed to mock the vibrancy she once possessed.
I remembered clutching her hand, feeling the frailty of her bones beneath my fingers, listening to the labored gasps that fought against the oppressive silence of the room.
I would read to her, my voice trembling, a feeble attempt to soothe the rattling cough that marked the slow, merciless advance of her disease.
Her sky-blue eyes—so much like my own—dimmed with each passing day until, at last, they closed forever.
Her death was the first fracture, the first jagged crack splintering through our family.
My father and brothers withdrew into themselves, into the dangerous allure of their secretive society, leaving me alone to navigate the ruins of what we once were.
To them, I became a porcelain doll—too fragile, too breakable to be exposed to the world they thrived in.
And yet, that very world had annihilated them, too, leaving me the sole survivor of our shattered home.
Exhaling a sigh that carried the weight of my loneliness, I rose and crossed the room, pressing my forehead against the cool windowpane.
Beyond the glass, the gardens lay still beneath the early morning light, dew clinging to the petals of the roses my mother had once adored.
Their delicate beauty stood in cruel contrast to the decay that had taken root in my life, a reminder of what we had lost, of the warmth that had once filled these halls before the shadows crept in.
Now, I faced those shadows alone, wrapped in mourning, my dress as black as the grief that had taken up residence in my chest.
The silence in my chamber was a living thing, a specter that coiled around me, suffocating in its constancy.
The room’s grandeur—with its heavy drapes, gilded mirrors, and towering bookshelves—offered no comfort.
Instead, it was a cage, a lavish prison filled with echoes of a past that no longer existed.
I spent hours by the fireplace, watching the flames twist and flicker, their restless dance casting ghostly silhouettes along the walls.
The portraits of my ancestors loomed above me, their painted eyes cold and impassive, as though evaluating my worth—judging my right to carry on the family name.
But what legacy remained now, beyond tragedy and death?
My father’s words from the day of my brothers’ funeral echoed in my mind, a wound that refused to heal.
“You’re worthless to me now.” The cruelty in his voice more damaging than the words.
I had gone to him, seeking solace in the wake of our shared loss, but he had turned away, leaving me to drown in my grief alone.
When my bedroom walls pressed too close, I wandered through the gardens, seeking refuge among the vibrant colors of the flowers.
Here, amidst the roses my mother had once adored, the world felt softer, less suffocating.
But no amount of beauty could change what had been taken from me.
I had been raised to be seen, not heard—a rule that had left me voiceless when I needed to scream, to rage against the unfairness of it all.
A soft knock at the door pulled me from my reverie.
“Come in,” I whispered, my voice barely louder than the rustle of the silk curtains swaying in the breeze.
Mary entered, her movements as graceful and quiet as the deer that roamed the woods beyond the estate. She offered me a small smile—a flicker of warmth against the cold that had settled deep in my bones.
“Let’s have you at the vanity, Lady Elizabeth,” she said gently, guiding me toward the ornate mirror. The glass reflected my hollowed expression, a pale ghost of the girl I used to be.
Mary’s brush glided through my hair in slow, rhythmic strokes, the soothing motion a fragile balm against the ache in my chest.
“How are you coping?” Her voice was soft, laced with the kind of genuine concern that no one else dared to offer.
A lump formed in my throat, and the words spilled forth before I could stop myself.
“Mary, without your voice to keep me sane, this silence might just kill me.”
My desperation startled me. I had spent so long concealing my grief behind layers of decorum, yet here I was, unraveling at the mere kindness of a friend.
“Don’t be silly,” Mary chided, though there was nothing dismissive in her tone. Her eyes held a quiet strength, a tenderness that wrapped around me like a shield against the storm. “You are strong. And capable. You would survive.”
But survival was not the same as living.
A protest welled inside me, a tide of despair I could no longer hold back.
Clutching at my chest, I tried to quell the ache that grew more piercing with each passing day.
“How can you say that?” I murmured, my reflection in the mirror, a ghostly echo of the girl I once was.
“Survival feels like a punishment without them… without anyone.”
Mary paused, her hands settling gently on my shoulders, grounding me in the present. Our eyes met in the mirror, hers filled with something close to sorrow. “Lady Elizabeth, you mustn’t think such things,” she whispered. “You’ve weathered storms before. You’ll get through this one too.”
Her faith in me was a lifeline thrown into the turbulent seas of my grief. Yet, as she spoke those words of encouragement, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this storm might be the one to pull me under.
A resounding rap at the door shattered the fragile quiet between us.
Still weaving through my hair in tender strokes, Mary’s fingers stilled abruptly.
I felt the shift in her—how, in the space of a breath, she became once more the silent, efficient maid.
The warmth in her gaze retreated behind an invisible barrier, leaving only the polished composure expected of her.
“Come in,” I called, though the quiver in my voice betrayed the sudden apprehension curling in my gut.
The door swung open with a force that sent the air shuddering. My father’s tall, rigid figure loomed in the doorway, his presence filling the room, though he did not cross the threshold.
His gaze found mine, piercing and imperious, holding me captive momentarily before he spoke.
“My study, Elizabeth. At once.”
And then he was gone, the door left ajar in his wake, his footsteps echoing down the corridor like the toll of a distant bell. For a moment, the weight of his words hung heavy in the air, thick with foreboding.
Yet something stirred within me—an ember of hope flickering in the depths of my grief. It was absurd, foolish even, but the mere act of being summoned and acknowledged ignited a spark of excitement in my hollow chest.
“He wants to speak to me!” The words slipped past my lips before I could catch them, the realization a sudden, dizzying thing.
Mary, ever composed, resumed her task with quiet efficiency, her fingers deftly gathering my golden strands into a semblance of order. “Go on, Lady Elizabeth,” she urged, her voice hushed. “Don’t keep him waiting.”
I rose, my legs trembling as if they, too, sensed the gravity of this moment. With a final glance at my reflection—a pale specter staring back at me—I turned away from Mary, my sole confidante in this silent world, and stepped beyond the hold of my sanctuary.
The hall stretched ahead, long and shadowed, each step a measured beat against the polished floor. By the time I stood at my father’s study, my excitement had dwindled, smothered by the weight of uncertainty.
The chill struck me when I crossed the doorway, seeping into my bones like an unwelcome guest. The room was a stark expanse of dark wood and looming bookshelves, where sunlight seemed reluctant to linger, its pallid rays barely reaching the cold stone floor.