Page 54 of Sweet Venom Of Time (Blade of Shadows #6)

To shadows that danced behind closed eyelids.

My breath hitched. I tried to cling to Mary’s words, to the comfort she provided.

But they slipped through me like sand.

And Amir?—

Was he truly dead?

Or had it all been a fever dream?

“Mary, the masquerade.”

The word seared my tongue like a brand, memories rising in jagged fragments.

Dread. Poison. Chaos.

But there was something else?—

A shiver crawled down my spine.

The ghost of satisfaction.

A whisper of something dark, something buried beneath the horror.

“I saw things that night.” My voice caught, the memories too vivid, too raw. “Terrible things.”

My hands trembled, my breath shallow.

“But when the poison took hold of me, I fled.”

I swallowed hard, fear and uncertainty twisting like a vice around my ribs.

“Do you know what happened after? What became of everyone?”

A pause.

A silence thick enough to smother.

And then?—

“What became of…”

The name caught in my throat.

I couldn’t say it.

Not without breaking.

Mary’s hands stilled.

She tucked the blankets around me again, the soft rustling of fabric the only sound between us.

And when she finally spoke, her voice was softer than before.

“Much has happened, my lady.”

Silence settled between us, thick and intentional.

“But rest now.”

Her eyes shimmered with sorrow.

Not just grief, but understanding.

The kind born only from witnessing the unspeakable.

“We can speak of it later. Your strength must return before we face the past.”

A chill settled in my bones.

The past.

Something had been left unsaid.

Something that could not be confronted until I was strong enough to endure it.

My mind reeled, drowning in a tempest of confusion, half-formed questions, and the creeping sense that the truth was far worse than I could comprehend.

But Mary’s hands anchored me.

And for the moment, I let go.

I let her pull me back into the quiet embrace of convalescence, trusting her to guard the gateways to a reality I was not yet ready to acknowledge.

* * *

The coverlet felt heavy on my legs as I shifted, trying to ease the stiffness that clung to my muscles like iron restraints. I fought against the lingering pull of unconsciousness, struggling to surface fully—to return to the world I had left behind.

Mary sat nearby, an embroidery ring clutched lightly in her hands. She stabbed the needle into the cloth—once, twice—then set it aside as soon as she saw my eyes flutter open.

“You’re back,” she said softly, a small smile breaking across her weary features.

“I’m trying to be back,” I murmured. My voice felt foreign—thin and frayed at the edges. I pushed myself upright with effort, plumping the pillows behind me, needing the stability they offered.

“You must tell me what happened.”

Mary’s expression shifted. The light in her eyes dimmed, a shadow passing over her as the past caught up to us both.

“Nearly all perished that night,” she said quietly. Then her gaze dropped to the coverlet, fingers worrying a crease in the fabric.

“Lord Hassan…” Her voice faltered.

“He is gone…”

“Gone?” The word hit me like a blow, and tears came, fast and hot, blurring the room’s edges.

She nodded, her eyes glossy with unshed sorrow.

“He hasn’t been seen since that night. It’s whispered his body was found with the others.”

I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t move. My world tilted beneath me.

Amir. Gone.

The room closed in, and the weight of the coverlet was suddenly unbearable.

Mary spoke again, her voice a fragile tether.

“Your father—he survived. But…”

I snapped my gaze up.

She hesitated only a moment, then finished.

“He’s paralyzed.”

A chill traced down my spine.

“Paralyzed? But… he’s alive?”

The words stumbled out, twisting in my throat, refusing to make sense.

Mary nodded solemnly.

“Yes, Lady Elizabeth. He cannot walk anymore… but he’s still with us.”

I sat in silence, a storm churning beneath my skin. My father—the man who had ruled my life with an iron fist, cold commands, and colder punishments—now bound to a chair.

His own body severed his power.

I didn’t know if I felt justice… or fear.

“Tell me more,” I whispered, the words catching like thorns in my throat.

Emotions warred inside me—grief, disbelief, a bitter tangle of relief and guilt.

The past hadn’t let me go.

And now, I would have to face it.

Mary exhaled slowly, her gaze drifting to some distant point of sorrow, her voice softened by memory and dread.

“There’s not much to tell.

“Most didn’t survive the night… the masquerade.”

Her hands trembled slightly as she pressed one to her chest as if trying to hold herself together.

“The dead were… grotesquely deformed. Misshapen.

“There were great efforts to keep the news from the public.

“I only heard whispers.

“From the staff.

“It was… awful.”

Her words trailed off, choked by the weight of what couldn’t be said aloud.

My heart skipped, then pounded violently against my ribs, a drumbeat of dread.

“And Lord Winston?”

The name tasted bitter, foul on my tongue, a reminder of hands that had never touched me without leaving scars.

Mary’s lips pressed together, the briefest flicker of relief—or perhaps disdain—shadowing her features.

“He didn’t make it.”

She exhaled, slow, controlled.

“He’s gone to his maker in hell.”

I sagged back into the pillows, my body limp with confusion and release.

Relief washed over me—brief, treacherous.

And then—guilt. Crushing, suffocating guilt.

The burden of lives lost—claimed by my creation—settled on me like a mountain, stealing the air from my lungs.

A shattering thought struck me like a hammer to the chest?—

Had I killed Amir, too?

Was it my poison that ended him?

The notion coiled in my gut, a serpent of regret and terror, tightening around my heart until I feared it would break.

My hands—once balanced, sure instruments of healing and alchemy?—

Now stained with destruction.

How many had fallen?

How many had been killed by my hand?

“The fact that you survived is a miracle.”

Mary’s voice pulled me back from the abyss.

I stared at her, empty. Numb.

“Is it?” I murmured, my gaze shifting to the wall, to nothing.

“I should be dead, too.”

The words hung in the air.

In my mind, I was pulled back—to that chamber of shadow and gold, where opulence met nightmare.

Underground.

Somewhere else.

And the old man…

His voice, his touch, the symbols etched in blood.

“I keep remembering... I was somewhere else,” I whispered.

“Underground. There was an old man. He… was taking care of me.”

“Elizabeth.”

Mary’s hand found mine—warm, grounding, real.

“You’ve been here this whole time. You’ve been ill, but you never left this room. It’s only your fevered dreams that took you elsewhere.”

Her words struggled to settle, fighting the storm still raging in my mind.

“Then how?—”

The question died on my lips.

Because the answer had already bloomed in my heart, cold and bitter.

“My father…”

Mary’s expression didn’t waver.

“I told you. Most died that night.”

Her voice was even, but beneath it, I sensed a quiet fury, a grief too long carried.

“Your father survived, but he is a changed man. Bitter. We’ve lost nearly everything. The estate is in shambles. Most of the servants are gone—frightened away by him. It’s a miracle this house, our home, hasn’t been taken from us already.”

I lay there, absorbing her words.

A miracle.

It felt like a curse.

Miracles were for saints and martyrs.

Not for women like me, who had toyed with death in glass vials, whispered forbidden incantations over open flames, and lost everything.

Mary’s eyes darted away, and a shadow flickered across her face.

“What is it?”

The edge in my voice was thin, frayed by fear.

Her hesitation hung between us, thick and suffocating, like the heavy drapes that locked out the sunlight I craved.

“Elizabeth.”

My name broke on her lips, trembling like the last leaf clinging to an autumn branch.

Her hands tightened around mine.

As if to prepare me.

“I need to tell you something.”

A pause.

A breath.

“You’re with child.”

The words hit me like a storm.

A gasp ripped through my throat, raw, ragged—leaving me breathless.

I yanked my hands from hers, pressing them to my eyes as if to block out the world.

But it was too late.

Tears spilled over, tracing silver paths down my cheeks.

Amir’s child.

But now he was gone.

Lost to the darkness that had claimed him—and now, part of him lived on within me.

My heart pounded a frantic rhythm of dread and helplessness.

“My father will kill me,” I whispered, the words barely audible above the thunder in my chest.

Mary’s face paled.

“Does he know?”

“No, my lady.”

Mary’s hand rested gently on my arm, her touch grounding.

“I convinced the doctor that his suspicions were due to your stress. He’s mistaken, I told him. No one knows but me.”

Relief warred with dread in my chest, a storm of contradictions I could barely contain.

Mary’s gaze searched mine, her voice barely a whisper.

“Could it be true?”

The question hovered, a ghost on her lips.

But she already knew.

We both did.

“Yes.”

The word scraped from my throat like a shard of glass.

“Amir and I… we fell in love.”

Mary’s eyes lit with wonder, a smile blooming across her face like sunlight after a storm.

“That’s wonderful!”

She squeezed my hand.

“He left you a gift. This baby.”

But her joy couldn’t pierce the cloak of sorrow wrapped tight around me.

Not when the world had already taken him.

Not when this child would be born into ruin.

Suddenly, a cacophony exploded from the hallway—shouts, crashing, the jarring clatter of something heavy.

Mary’s head snapped toward the door, her hand tightening on mine.

Then—

The door burst open.

It slammed against the wall with a force that echoed in my bones.

My father appeared in the doorway, propelled forward by a servant, his face a twisted mask of fury.

Silence fell—charged, suffocating.

He sat in a wheelchair, an iron-rimmed chariot of suffering, more prison than a tool.