*checks my author's note from previous chapter* Hmm, it would seem I'm a lying bitch. Sorry, friends. Life happened. Anyways, this is all written up and polished so we'll all get regular updates.
"...if your dear heart is wounded, my wild heart bleeds with yours…"
- Carmilla, Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu
It was after dinner, and they had been walking through the rose garden.
"I don't believe we will be seeing much more of each other," he'd said with a soft smile.
She'd looked up at him with some trepidation. "You can't be certain of that."
He laughed, turning to stroke the petals of a half-blown rose.
"I am certain that my father and your grandmother will try very hard to make it so." His fingers travelled down the length of its stem. "I am only surprised that it has taken them this long." With a twitch of his fingers, he snapped the stem.
He turned to her, his soft smile belying the insistent gaze of his eyes. "Won't you have a rose, Bonnie?"
She had taken it, heart troubled. "But – perhaps, they might reconcile their differences? We could bring about a new age."
His sharp laughter cut through the sweet softness of the night.
"Bonnie, you cannot possibly believe that." He tilted his head at her, eyebrows angled incredulously. "Sometimes I think you are the most naive creature I have ever met."
"It is not naive to hope," she bit out.
He had chuckled, shaking his head. "But it is. Though -" he lowered his voice, bending his head closer to her. "With you declaring it in such a disarming manner – and in defense of our friendship – it is difficult not to be persuaded." The light from the balcony washed over his curling lips.
"I do believe you are mocking me," she muttered, her fist tightening, inadvertently pricking her finger on a thorn. She gasped, letting the rose fall to the ground.
"Mocking you?" He grasped her hand, pulling it up to examine the wounded finger.
The moon hid behind a cloud and the wind quietly stole away as his mouth closed around her finger. He sucked at the small cut, and his eyes stayed locked on hers, hard, urgent, challenging her to pull her hand away.
She didn't.
He straightened up, still holding onto her hand. "Mocking you?" He tugged her closer. "Only a little," he whispered, before crushing the words between their lips.
She wakes to the rain beating against the windowpane.
In her chest, there is an ache, as if she has lost something, or remembered something that has been lost to her. The dream... it had been so vivid. So real. So real that she almost finds herself wondering if it is a memory.
But it can't be, she thinks, brushing trembling fingers against her lips. She does not like what has come over her of late. It is as if there is another self, just underneath her skin, waiting to come out.
The knock at the door makes her jump.
"Oh, I was hoping you'd be up, Miss!," Leah says, bustling in. "It's just that the inspector's here, and he says he needs to speak to you."
"Oh. Tell him I will be right down, Leah."
Leah bobs in reply before disappearing downstairs.
Outside, a clap of thunder sounds.
"Miss Bennett, good morning."
The inspector places his cup and saucer on the table and stands, bowing slightly.
Bonnie dips a quick curtsy.
"Inspector. I didn't expect to see you so soon."
"Neither did I you." He picks up the teapot and pours a fresh cup of tea, handing it to Bonnie.
She takes it with a murmur of thanks, just managing to restrain herself from pelting him with questions.
"I'm afraid," the inspector begins, stirring his tea, "that things are not as straightforward as we first believed."
Bonnie waits. For a moment there is only the sound of the crackling fire, and the tinkling of the teaspoon as the inspector stirs his tea.
"Truth be told, I am not sure how I should broach this with you, if I should be discussing this with you at all."
"Inspector." Bonnie interrupts with a wry smile. "I receive my fair share of molly-coddling from Madame Pearce."
A faint smile of acknowledgement flits across the inspector's face. "All the same..." he murmurs. "But it is perhaps best that you know."
Bonnie waits, gripping the handle of her teacup to hide her impatience.
"Well, the thing is -" The inspector brushes a hand over his mouth, places his cup and saucer on the table. He looks at her. "We've found the coachman's body."
"Oh. Well, that's..." Bonnie had been about to say "good" but the inspector's voice had suggested otherwise.
"Rather – we found a part of his body. A foot."
Bonnie feels her eyebrows jump. "Good lord. Did an animal get to him?"
The inspector tilts his head. "The...ah. Well, there are no traces of bite marks."
"Then..."
"It looked...to have been ripped from the leg."
"How can that be? Are you certain?"
"There certainly weren't any bite marks. Believe me, I've seen animal attacks before. This -" The inspector reaches for his cup and takes a long swig of his tea. "This was no animal."
"But then..." Her unfinished question hangs in the air. Clearly, the inspector is as dumbfounded as she is.
"How did you know it was him? The coachman?"
The inspector's gaze focuses again. "He had a tattoo on his foot. The innkeeper was able to confirm it was him. Which reminds me." He leans closer. "The innkeeper told me that he saw your visitor and the coachman getting into a rather heated argument. Said he flew into a rage at the man before they set off."
Bonnie frowns. "Well, he didn't seem impressed with the man's services last night..."
"I would be careful, miss."
"What are you saying? Are you implying that our visitor has it in him to rip a man to shreds?"
The inspector winces. "Of course not. But you must admit, he is a complete stranger. And you are all alone."
"I am not all alone."
"Be that as it may. And I certainly do take heart knowing that you are more level-headed than other ladies in your station... But all the same, I would urge you to take care. Know that I am at your disposal."
"Of course," Bonnie murmurs. The inspector's insistence, his concern for her well-being has suddenly made it difficult for her to speak.
The inspector looks at her for a beat longer, then nods. "Well, then. I will be in touch. Good day, my dear."
It comes to her when she is in the chapel that evening.
The chest. It will have been charmed closed with a memory spell. The memory of touch. She doesn't know when she'd last come across one. It's one of the older, "quainter" spells as her grandmother used to call it, but once she thinks of it she cannot get it out of her head.
In less than thirty minutes, she is in her bedroom again, and in her hand, a white lace glove that belonged to her grandmother. She strokes it between her fingers for a minute, then pulls it on over her right hand. It fits perfectly. Her lace covered fingers reach out and brush over the iron lock.
It clicks open.
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