She didn’t miss the narrowing of Lord Avon’s blue eyes, nor the way he took the boy from her, anchoring him to his own chest, his hand possessively snaking over the sleeping infant.

  “He is an Avon through and through,” was His Lordship’s only reply, as if the boy had been born in isolation, from a single line. A motherless child even before birth.

  * * *

  —

  Lady Hargreaves’s delight expanded the more she watched Bram grow.

  He was a quick learner, and he understood the world in different ways from the adults around him. He would notice small details that escaped everyone else’s attention—that the tonic Lady Hargreaves had each morning to calm her nerves made her drowsy and dazed, or that the parade of men who entered Hythe House always left with a brand on their forearm: The Wake.

  Bram was only seven when he asked her about the Wake, and when he saw Lady Hargreaves freeze, her eyes wild with fright thanks to all the things she’d seen and heard over the years, he learned not to ask again. Her husband and Lord Avon had begun to take the young master into their meetings, excluding Lady Hargreaves on the other side of the closed door, and she knew that they were molding him to one day inherit it all.

  She watched with growing dread the way Lord Avon treated the child. He was not a neglectful father, nor even a cruel one, but he was forgetful. It was obvious he loved the boy, taking great pride in both his intellect and handsome features. But Lord Avon was prone to taking long trips, leaving the boy either with Mrs. Van, the governess, or at Hythe House with Lady Hargreaves.

  When he returned, he’d whisk the boy back to Weavingshaw, and Lady Hargreaves felt the gap in her chest grow wider at Bram’s absence. Sometimes, her husband would accompany Lord Avon on those trips north, and every time he returned from Weavingshaw, Lady Hargreaves sensed a change in him. Something dark had rooted itself in her husband’s chest and he barricaded himself for longer in his study.

  Bram also returned changed.

  Childhood seemed to fall off him quicker, leaving behind something ancient and cold. He still knew how to smile at her in that boyish way that had always charmed her, but she’d seen the way that smile dropped the moment she turned her head. All the unease Lady Hargreaves felt seemed to build and build with each passing hour until she felt smothered beneath the weight of it.

  But…her husband still visited her at night. Lady Hargreaves told herself that she could live with the disquiet she felt during the day if it meant she could have those nights with him.

  * * *

  —

  Just before Bram’s twelfth year, her husband took her to spend the summer at Weavingshaw.

  It was her first time at the estate, and Lady Hargreaves longed to see the land that had captivated the child she’d grown to love with her entire being.

  The estate was beautiful.

  But it seemed to hate Lady Hargreaves beyond compare.

  She felt suffocated within the house. Sometimes, she imagined the walls were closing in on her, depriving her of breath. During the nights, even though she could see her husband’s sleeping form beside her, she felt cut off. Isolated. Without shelter.

  She pretended happiness for Bram’s sake. She could clearly see that the boy’s soul was embedded within Weavingshaw, spellbound by it. From the window, she’d once watched as Bram and his father walked the lands with holy reverence, cutting through the Deathgrips that grew in a tangle around the estate, both reaching down to grasp a piece of earth in their cupped hands. It was clear in their movements, the broadness of their shoulders, the angle of their jaws, even the slant of their brows, that they were father and son. Lady Hargreaves wondered how she had ever thought that Bram would inherit his looks solely from his mother; it became unmistakably clearer with every year that he had the Avon bearing in spite of the darkness of his hair and eyes.

  During those sweltering days, she and Bram left notes for each other in a postbox they had nailed to a tree beside the wild beach. She would hum to him the same lullaby she’d sung to him as a babe.

  Bram was always a quick child, sharp and observant, and she knew that he’d also started to notice the odd changes of behavior that had begun to unsettle his father that summer.

  Paranoia had taken hold of Lord Avon, His Lordship’s eyes growing increasingly suspicious by the day, his words piercing as if he suspected everyone of some nefarious purpose.

  Their once humor-filled dinners had gone silent.

  Her husband would sit in seething silence, throwing guarded glances at Lord Avon every now and then, as if searching for a shred of recognition in his oldest friend. More than once, Lady Hargreaves would hear their muffled, angry arguments as she listened in at the closed study door.

  Her husband never answered her questions, only stating that he and Lord Avon had had a disagreement—one they would resolve in time.

  She should’ve known something was wrong when Bram turned to her one morning as they walked the length of the beach, his eyes flickering in the direction of the house. “It’s worth it, is it not?”

  Lady Hargreaves shaded her eyes from the overbearing sun. “Is what worth it?”

  “Weavingshaw,” Bram said, as if speaking to himself. “It’s worth everything.”

  Lady Hargreaves never let go of the regret that she had not bitterly disagreed with him that day. That Weavingshaw was not worth everything. That it was not worth him. That it was never worth him.

  * * *

  —

  By autumn, the boy was gone.

  He was taken, her husband had told her softly. Kidnapped.

  He muttered excuses for his disappearance, but Lady Hargreaves was deaf to it all, her grief its own monster. She begged: Find him, please find him, that poor motherless boy.

  But no one went looking for him.

  And through it all, her husband forced her to remain at Weavingshaw. He told her that they could not leave when their business was unfinished. What that business was, he did not disclose—despite her wild pleading.

  No longer did Lady Hargreaves allow her husband into her chamber. Every night he knocked on her door, and every night he found it locked.

  The less anyone in that house spoke of Bram’s disappearance, the more she began to hate her husband. As the months passed, she watched as Lord Hargreaves’s bond with Lord Avon snapped, deteriorating into a frenzy of distrust and anger.

  Now the silence during their dinners was choking.

  During one such night, Lord Avon had suddenly stood up, slamming his hands on the table.

  “Leave, Charles. Leave this house—I command it.”

  Lord Hargreaves paid him no mind as he continued to slice his roast. “I will not, Percy. Not until you return what you have stolen. It belongs to the both of us. That was the agreement.”

  Stolen? Were they speaking of Bram?

  Lady Hargreaves eyed them both carefully, but it was clear they were not speaking of the missing son. Her heart cracked at this realization.

  Lord Avon’s face flamed. “Without Mrs. Van, you know everything is worthless.”

  “Then we shall find her,” Lord Hargreaves continued, putting down his knife and fork. “Until then, Percy, we will not leave.”

  Vaguely, Lady Hargreaves realized that she had not seen Mrs. Van in some time—not since Bram had also been taken. She wanted to demand answers; she wanted to stand and scream until her ears bled. But Lady Hargreaves only kept silent, wondering why no one commented on the dying woman at the dinner table.

  * * *

  —

  Lord Avon sent for his mistress to be brought to Weavingshaw.

  Moira. She was a slight thing, with shy eyes and a girlish figure. She played the pianoforte beautifully. Distantly, as if through a haze, Lady Hargreaves noticed one evening that the girl wore the Avon ring on her left hand.

  She heard Lord Hargreaves’s whispered accusation to Lord Avon as they sat listening to the girl play. “You’ve married her, haven’t you? Does she know where you’ve hidden it?”

  Lord Avon’s voice was a snarl. “You won’t find it, Charles. Weavingshaw will keep my secrets. So will the new Lady Avon.”

  Lady Hargreaves listened quietly as the young Lady Avon’s fingers skimmed over the keys, and she felt a fierce regret for this girl. There was nothing she could do. Nothing anyone could do.

  Weavingshaw had already condemned them all.

  * * *

  —

  A week had passed, and the new Lady Avon was nowhere to be found. No one dared utter her name.

  Lady Hargreaves was unsurprised.

  Nor was she surprised when she saw Lord Hargreaves ride out at dawn to meet Lord Avon, a sword at his hip.

  She waited for him at the edge of the forest, away from the watchful eyes of the servants, and he came staggering back at noon, blood staining his shirt. His eyes were red-rimmed.

  When he saw her, he let out a sob. “I’ve done it. He’s dead. Percy’s dead.” He reached for her, clinging to her neck, burying his face into her shoulder while she stood motionless. He babbled nonsense. “I had to…Percy has grown in power since the trade…the Limitless Vessel…he would’ve destroyed us all. You’ve seen him, Gemma, the way that paranoid ideas have begun to breach his mind? The Avon curse has rotted his brain. He could not have…I should not have…allowed him…such influence…” He continued to weep like a child. “Speak, my love. Please—say something to me. I cannot stand your anger anymore.”

  “And Bram?” she asked quietly, her voice steady.

  He did not look at her. His response came after a shuddering moment. “Gone. With Percy’s death, he is gone.”

  Anger welled up in Lady Hargreaves’s throat, and she pounced on her husband, clawing at his eyes. “I know you did it! You son of a bitch! You did something to him!”

  Lord Hargreaves did nothing to defend himself. He merely placed his bloodstained hands over his head, repeating the words over and over again as if in a trance. “They are both gone. Can’t you understand? I had to do it.”

  * * *

  —

  That night, Lady Hargreaves filled her pocket with rocks. She paid one final visit to the postbox she had used to hide small gifts for the child she had once loved fiercely. That she still loved fiercely. She left two letters—one addressed to her Bram, and one to her husband.

  She would no longer tie her fate to that of a murderer.

  Then, her eyes dry, Weavingshaw at her back, she walked into the ocean.

  And even that did not release her from this cursed land.

  He is late.

  Lord Hargreaves stood waiting beside Martin on the fringes of a flat meadow. The carriage was settled nearby, the horses’ wide nostrils venting puffs of steam into the crisp air. In the distance, he could hear the howling of wolves deep within the forest. It sounded much nearer today.

  Hargreaves tried to shake away the feeling of disquiet he always experienced at the ever-present snarl of wolves, as if they sensed his thoughts and were ready to tear him limb from limb. Even ten years ago, when he’d stood rooted to this very spot, he’d heard them, his heart pounding with urgency, as if they smelled the blood that marked his betrayal of one of their own.

  He looked over at the Al-Sayer boy now to distract his thoughts. He stood with one foot tied to the single shriveled tree that broke the landscape. Dispassionately, Hargreaves noted the bloody marks and bruises the boy carried; it was clear Martin had beaten him ruthlessly.

  The boy’s injuries did not stop him from pacing in an arc in agitation, as far as his rope allowed him, marking footprints in the frost-covered ground.

  The land around them was a barren wasteland, just outside Weavingshaw’s boundaries, the soil too hard to grow anything other than weedy grass.

  Hargreaves’s thoughts could not contain themselves this morning. It was as if the landscape had refused to change in the ten years since he had last been here, when he had met Percy for the last time, sword in hand.

  He’d had to draw Percy out here, even with the dangers lurking near the edge of the forest, for he could not have touched him within Weavingshaw’s domain.

  The irony was not lost on him. Hargreaves had chosen this very meadow once more to meet Percy’s son, as if the Saints wanted him to complete the cycle. He would not admit even to himself that he was afraid that Weavingshaw would still do everything in its power to protect its young master, even if he had yet to swear fealty to its walls, for it still recognized Avon blood.

  It was a few minutes past dawn when he heard the horse’s hooves pounding on the frost-hardened ground. At moments like these, Hargreaves could see nothing except the similarities between father and son.

  The way they both rode a horse masterfully, the roll of their shoulders, their height, even the eyes—glacial, hateful, cannibal eyes, despite their difference in color. For an instant, Hargreaves was not sure if it was Percy who had, after all, been resurrected from his grave.

  If not for the dark coloring, which Bramwell had inherited from his beautiful, doomed mother, then Hargreaves would have bent his knees and prayed to the Saints for bringing back the dead.

  And yet such prayers would never be accepted. He could never forget that it was he who had joined Percy when they took young Bramwell to the underworld on his twelfth birthday, one hand on each of his shoulders, steering him to sign his name on the contract. The boy had been shaking so hard his signature came out scrawled and illegible, and he’d been forced to repeat it.

  “For Weavingshaw,” Percy had told him.

  “For Weavingshaw,” the boy repeated.

  Hargreaves had knelt down to look Bram in the eyes. “We will come back for you. I promise.”

  They hadn’t.

  Over twelve years, the boy had grown into a man under the glare of demons. They had fed on him; that was clear. Hargreaves knew the look of someone who had been fed on often. That he had survived so long—under the merciless dominion of the Frays, no less—was unfathomable.

  But in truth, it was fortunate that the boy had not died.

  Since Percy’s death, Hargreaves had spent the last ten years searching in vain for the Limitless Vessel. Finding it would have at least given young Bramwell Avon’s sacrifice purpose.

  He and his men had swept every inch of Weavingshaw, save the parts of the crypts that were barred to him, but the estate hid Percy’s secret.

  Except for Mrs. Van, who had disappeared for years before re-emerging at the elbow of the Saint of Silence, Hargreaves had interviewed every servant who had worked at Weavingshaw within the last two decades. All of them were worthless—except Avon’s old housekeeper, whose mind had been spoiled long before the Limitless Vessel was traded for Bram.

  In desperation, Lord Hargreaves had had his men search the old housekeeper’s cottage a few months ago. He’d found the timepiece there. Percy had always favored Mrs. Graham above all other servants. Even when her mind became demented, he still had a fondness for her and ensured she was looked after until his death. One half of the mystery was revealed to Hargreaves the day he gave the locket back to the old woman, knowing it would not be long before it was found again. His plan only grew from then.

  Hargreaves was once more brought back to the present by St. Silas dismounting the horse, patting the animal’s muzzle with an absentminded hand. He didn’t seem surprised that Martin had chosen Hargreaves as his second.

  A surgeon was deliberately not present this morning—though it was one of the criteria for all duels of honor. Hargreaves knew St. Silas had noted this obvious breach of the code, but said nothing. He did, however, observe Rami tied like an animal, and a cold anger darkened his face.

  “Not entirely honorable, I see,” St. Silas drawled.

  “Do not be concerned, Mr. St. Silas. This is only to ensure that all parties remain on the premises until the completion of the duel,” Hargreaves replied mildly.

  Ignoring him, St. Silas walked toward Rami, his sword ready to cut the rope.

  Hargreaves didn’t want this to be a massacre. A duel must take place. He needed St. Silas to be desperate, not dead.

  Not yet.

  “Unfortunately, you have not given me a choice, Mr. St. Silas. I will be pointing this pistol at Mr. Al-Sayer’s head throughout the duration of your duel.” The click of Hargreaves’s gun put an effective stop to St. Silas’s determined actions. “However, as long as the duel is kept clean, and you emerge the winner, both yourself and Mr. Al-Sayer will be free to leave without any further delay—as promised.”

  St. Silas and Rami exchanged a hard look, but not a surprised one. Hargreaves would once have despised a man who did not respect the code of honor that would have ensured a fair duel, but he was now desperate and short on time.

  Hargreaves had already warned Martin that he did not care about the ruined Tar. His sole focus was to retrieve the red diary and the secret it held, pertaining to the whereabouts of the Limitless Vessel. Hargreaves was never going to allow St. Silas or his wards to leave Weavingshaw.

  St. Silas gave Martin a curt nod to commence.

  “Your pistol,” Hargreaves commanded St. Silas. “Throw it here.”

  His mouth hard, St. Silas pulled the revolver from his pocket and threw it toward Hargreaves’s shoes. Hargreaves bent to retrieve it, hiding it in his own coat.

  The snow had begun to fall in earnest now, coating the lapels of St. Silas’s dark jacket.

  Beside him, Martin stood at the ready, silently unsheathing his sword.

  Martin was an expert swordsman, and he knew it. Wordlessly, he stood in position, the blade held aloft.

  St. Silas, his expression as icy as the surrounding frost, mirrored Martin’s stance, his own sword held in a firm grasp.