Chapter 3

Twenty heavy iron spades violently tore open the frozen earth.

Duchess Arabella stood at the edge of the abandoned, century-old rose garden, wrapping her fur coat tighter against the biting wind. She had dragged every remaining male servant out of their beds.

"Keep digging!" she shrieked, pointing her lantern at the dark soil. "Tear up every root until you find her!"

The men hacked into the frost-hardened mud for hours. They pulled up rusted tin boxes of old smuggled tobacco and shattered porcelain, tossing them aside.

Then, a shovel hit something with a dull, hollow thud.

One of the footmen stumbled backward, dropping his spade. A dirt-caked human skull rolled out of the disturbed clay. Beneath it, the pale, cracked ribs of a woman jutted upward from the mud.

Arabella’s tense shoulders immediately dropped. A manic, relieved grin stretched across her face. She turned to a guard. "Go get the Duke. Tell him we found that woman."

Lucian arrived less than five minutes later. He stepped into the garden, his heavy woolen overcoat brushing against the dead rosebushes.

He didn't even look at the skeleton. He didn't ask a single question.

He crossed the distance in two massive strides, his leather-gloved hand shooting out and clamping directly around Arabella’s throat.

Arabella choked, her boots lifting off the frosty grass as Lucian drove her backward.

"Do not test my patience, Arabella," Lucian’s voice dropped to a lethal, vibrating bass. "Do not hand me a pile of ten-year-old rotted bones. I am looking for a living, breathing woman."

Arabella’s face turned a violent shade of purple. She clawed frantically at his leather glove, her mouth opening and closing wordlessly.

Lucian shoved her backward into the mud.

"Try to stall me with a dead ghost again," Lucian looked at the terrified servants standing around the pit. "And I will bury every single person on this estate alive."

Martha gripped my wrist so hard her nails broke my skin. We were both shaking violently. I stared at the dark mud, remembering Agnes swinging from the crystal chandelier. Waiting meant certain death.

I stepped forward before I could stop myself.

"Lord Lucian." My voice cracked, but I forced my chin up, staring directly into his cold, dark eyes. "We scrub floors and wash linen. We don't know who you are looking for. If you want her found, you have to give us something. Anything."

The guards instantly raised their rifles.

Lucian stared at me.

He reached inside his coat. He pulled out a crumpled, charred bundle of fabric and threw it violently at my feet.

"Match it," he said, turning on his heel and walking away.

I dropped to my knees and picked it up.

It was a piece of clothing. A vintage, nineteenth-century silk corset. The heavy boning was snapped in half, and the entire back half was scorched black by old fire.

Ten minutes later, we were back in the Duchess's sitting room.

Martha spread the burnt corset flat across the table under the gas lamp. Arabella sat beside it, a wet towel pressed to her bruised neck, glaring at the fabric.

Martha picked up the corset and held it against Arabella’s torso. She stopped.

"Madam," Martha’s eyes widened. "Look at the sizing."

The waist was painfully narrow. The chest structure was distinct. It matched Arabella’s exact proportions perfectly.

"And your hand," Martha breathed out, pointing at Arabella’s right hand. "When you fell off a horse as a teenager... the reins tore open the webbing of your thumb. You have a scar there."

I stared at Arabella’s right hand. Martha was right. A thick, faded white scar tore through the skin right between her thumb and index finger.

Martha’s voice pitched up with excitement. "Madam... what if Lucian isn't looking for a maid? He brought out an old corset with your exact measurements."

Arabella lowered the wet towel. She stared at the tight silk corset, her breathing speeding up.

She let out a sharp, breathless laugh.

"Martha! Go to the fireplace. Scrape the hot soot and mix it with water." Arabella ripped open the collar of her nightgown, exposing her bare chest. "Edith, fetch me a sewing needle. I need a cross on my chest right now."

It took twenty agonizing minutes of blood and ink. Arabella gritted her teeth, allowing Martha to violently stab a crude, small black cross into her pale skin.

When it was done, she wiped the blood away, sprayed herself heavily with French rose perfume, threw on a black lace robe, and marched straight toward Lucian’s master bedroom.

Martha and I hid in the heavy shadows of the staircase landing, folding our hands together.

The second-floor corridor was dead silent. Five minutes passed. Ten minutes. I let out a long breath, thinking Arabella had actually succeeded.

Then came a violent crash.

The heavy oak doors of the master bedroom flew open. Arabella was thrown out onto the stone floor by two of Lucian’s armed guards.

Her expensive lace robe was ripped down the seam. One side of her cheek was aggressively red and swelling. Her hair pins had completely fallen out, leaving her a tangled, humiliated mess.

The lead guard stared down at her.

"The Duke says you have exactly one day left," the guard spat. "Produce the actual living woman, or you go straight to the military dungeon."

They slammed the doors shut. Arabella stayed on the floor, letting out a raw, humiliated sob before scrambling up and running back to her wing.

Martha and I ran back to the servants' quarters, locking the door behind us.

We climbed into our narrow bed, pulling the rough blankets up to our chins. Martha was crying silently into her pillow.

I couldn't sleep. My mind raced, piecing the fragments together in the dark.

Lucian didn't just know the burn scar and the tattoo. He kept a burnt corset from ten years ago. A corset that perfectly matched Arabella's exact bodily frame.

It wasn't Arabella. But the measurements were precise. It meant the woman Lucian was looking for shared Arabella’s exact build, age, and likely lived in this house ten years ago during the fire.

Someone deeply connected to Arabella.

Then, a cold realization hit me.

There was only one person left on this estate who survived the massive fire in the east wing ten years ago. The old head housekeeper, Margaret. She went completely insane the night of the fire and had been locked inside the abandoned tower attic ever since.

I threw off the blankets. I grabbed the stolen iron key from the head butler's desk and the charred corset from Arabella's discarded pile.

"Edith, what are you doing?" Martha hissed.

"Finding out who the hell we are actually looking for."

I slipped through the dark corridors, climbing the spiraling, dust-choked stone stairs of the west tower. The air grew instantly colder, smelling of stale urine and rotten wood.

I shoved the key into the heavy iron padlock. It clicked.

I pushed the door open.

Margaret crouched in the corner of the freezing room, her wild white hair dragging on the floorboards. She rocked back and forth, muttering mindlessly to the rats.

My palms were sweating profusely. I walked forward slowly and held the burnt silk corset directly under the moonlight shifting through the barred window.

Margaret stopped rocking.

She stared at the charred fabric. Her cloudy, clouded eyes suddenly dilated in absolute, unfiltered terror.

She let out a piercing, blood-curdling scream, grabbing two fistfuls of her own white hair and ripping it backward.

"She's back!" Margaret shrieked, backing into the stone wall.