Midnight bled through the corridors. Celeste, armed with a candelabra (cliché, but the estate's wiring predated the lightbulb), picked at the east wing's lock.
The door groaned open.
Inside: a shrine. Portraits of a woman with Celeste's face stared down, her gowns frozen in time. A journal lay splayed on a desk, its pages brittle as moth wings.
My dearest Alaric, the entry began, if you read this, I am already dead—
A floorboard shrieked.
Celeste whirled. Alaric filled the doorway, his silhouette edged in moonlight. For a heartbeat, she saw it—raw, unfiltered pain in his eyes. Then it vanished.
"I warned you," he said.
She lifted the journal. "Who was she to you?"
His hand shot out, gripping her wrist. The candelabra hit the floor, flames guttering. "A mistake," he hissed. "One I won't repeat."
Celeste didn't pull away. "Funny. I specialize in those."