Twilight had settled over D'Aragon Hall by the time Isadora found herself standing in the dim light of the north corridor. Faded tapestries whispered in the draft, and the only sound was the soft padding of her slippers against the stone floor. It was nearly the same moment she'd left—only hours ago—and yet everything felt different: heavier, quieter, as though the house held its breath.
Evelyn appeared at her side, a pale lavender gown trailing behind her. In one hand, she clutched a folded sheet of parchment—fresh linens, water, and a request for a single chambermaid to come in after supper. In her other hand was a lantern, its flame dancing over Evelyn's anxious face.
"Thank you for coming," Evelyn whispered, leading Isadora to the door of Lucien's suite. The oil lamp inside cast trembling shadows through the keyhole.
"Of course," Isadora replied, voicing the determination she felt. "You said the maids are too frightened to enter."
Evelyn nodded, voice tight. "They've witnessed his… fits. They won't step inside. And no one else can care for him properly." She swallowed. "I don't know how long I can keep this up alone."
Isadora dipped her head. "I understand. We'll go in together."
Evelyn exhaled, relief mingling with dread. "He'll be expecting me only. If you appear too, he may…"
She trailed off, unable to finish. Isadora squeezed her arm.
Isadora paused in the faint glow of the corridor, recalling her father's final weeks in New York. Blind after a sudden illness, he had retreated into darkened rooms, terrified of bumping into walls, terrified of shadows. At first, she could not bear to help him—a proud man, ashamed of his blindness. But each night she lay beside him, guiding his hand to the water glass, brushing his hair from his face, whispering that she was there, no matter how dark the world. He had clutched her hand so fiercely she thought he might never let go.
She silenced the memory with a slow breath. Lucien's blindness—and his agony—would not be the same, but she knew pain's lovely shape. And so she steeled herself, determined to stay by his side.
By the time Isadora and Evelyn reached the heavy oak door, the storm outside had grown ominous. Evelyn's hand trembled as she turned the latch; Isadora placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder.
Inside, the chamber was lit only by a single guttering candle and the low glow of embers in the hearth. Furniture lay overturned; shards of porcelain glittered like stars across the floor. Lucien lay supine on the bed, face hidden in shadow.
"Get out," he rasped without lifting his head. His voice was low, unfamiliar—aching with pain and anger.
Evelyn stepped forward. "Your Grace—"
Lucien whipped his head around. In the dim light, he couldn't make out her familiar features. "Who is it?"
Evelyn lifted her chin. "Lady Isadora."
For a moment, silence pressed against them. The wind rattled the shutters; somewhere a branch scraped the window.
Isadora drew a steady breath and took a step into the candlelight. "Your Grace, I'm Lady Isadora Everhart. Evelyn invited me to… to help."
Lucien's eyes narrowed, then widened as recognition flickered through the haze of pain. He blinked, the candlelight dancing in his crimson irises.
"Everhart…" he whispered. Then, in a rush, the memory came back: the masked banquet, the trembling moment when she pressed a white rose into his hand. The soft warmth of her fingers.
He sat up slowly, planting his feet on the floor. The candlelight revealed the raw tension in his posture, but his fury had faded.
"Isadora," he said, voice rough but calm. He turned to Evelyn. "See that she leaves with respect."
Evelyn bowed. "Of course, Your Grace."
Isadora shook her head. "If you wish it, I will stay."
Lucien studied her, the wariness still in his gaze. Then, after a long beat, he nodded once. "Stay, then."
At that moment, the rain fell in a sudden, drumming rush against the windowpanes. The wind gusted down the chimney, sending a flicker through the candle.
Isadora glanced at the door. "I can't go now—the roads will be flooded."
Evelyn moved to a small side table. "I'll have your chamber prepared upstairs. You're our guest."
Isadora offered a small smile to Lucien. "Thank you, Your Grace."
He gave a brief tilt of his head before sinking back against the pillows.
Outside, thunder rumbled. Inside, an uneasy peace settled over the ruined chamber—the first fragile truce between a wounded duke and the woman who had once offered him a simple flower.
As Evelyn guided Isadora away, the storm's fury outside made it impossible to think of departing. Tonight, at least, the walls of D'Aragon Hall would shelter them all.
Isadora woke before dawn, the edges of the world still hazy with night. A thin sliver of pale light had slipped through the shutters of her guest chamber, brushing the foot of her bed with a hint of promise. She rose quietly, careful not to disturb the smooth hush of the house. In the silence, every creak of floorboard seemed loud, every whisper of her gown a mark of her presence.
She wrapped a woolen shawl around her shoulders—though the corridors were cool, her mind was warmed by one clear purpose. In the faint glow, she crossed the hall to the kitchens. The door stood slightly ajar, as though inviting her in. Inside, the cooks and scullery maids were still stirring about, stacking firewood, lighting lamps, and preparing the day's first loaves of bread. A single cook, head wrapped in a faded kerchief, lifted an eyebrow as Isadora entered.
"Good morning, Lady Isadora," the cook greeted, nodding kindly. "Tea before sunrise?"
"Please," Isadora murmured, voice soft. "If you have a spare pot and some of your mint leaves, I'd be grateful."
The cook smiled and set to work. Isadora watched the dance of stove flames, the swirl of steam as water heated for tea. She neatened a pile of ladles on the counter and folded a stray napkin, her thoughts drifting to Lucien. Last night's fragile peace had felt like a borrowed moment. Could she do this—care for a wounded duke, guide him through darkness deeper than night itself?
Her reverie broke when the kettle's first whistle sounded insistent. She fetched two pewter cups and a small tray, pouring the steaming liquid over mint sprigs until the chamber filled with a gentle fragrance. Slipping the tray into her fingers, she paused. From the far end of the corridor came a sudden crash—sharp, startling. The kettle almost rattled in her hand.
"By the gods," she whispered, setting the tray down. Without the thought of reluctance, she hurried toward the sound.
The heavy oak door to Lucien's chamber stood slightly open. A low groan reached her ears, followed by a clatter that sounded painfully familiar: the crash of heavy wood against stone. She knocked softly.
"Your Grace?" Her voice trembled with concern. "Are you all right?" Silence answered her. The groaning resumed, carried on waves of discomfort.
Isadora pushed the door gently and entered. The candlelight had guttered to a faint glow; the hearth's embers lay smoldering. In the dim gloom, Lucien's broad form lay crumpled on the floor, back slumped against the bedposts. His shoulders rose and fell in ragged breaths.
"Oh, my lord…" she whispered, stepping forward. She knelt beside him, setting the tray of tea against the bedside table so it would not tip. Then, with careful strength, she slid her arms under his shoulders.
"Lean on me," she said softly. "I'll help you up."
Lucien closed his eyes as though the world had gone black. He shifted his weight, pain twisting his muscles. His voice came brittle. "To…the—" He wheezed, cut off by a sharp gasp. "To… the… toilet."
Isadora offered him a firm smile. "Of course. I'll guide you." She helped him to his feet. He paused, unsteady, and she slipped an arm around his waist, supporting him.
The bathroom beyond the corridor was a small antechamber with a stone basin and a curtained alcove. Isadora guided Lucien by the elbow, footfalls echoing on the polished tiles. He moved with slow, uncertain steps; in each one, she saw his battle with the poison's lingering effects. When they reached the chamber pot hidden behind the curtain, she handed him the cup of tea.