At half past one, I entered the library in search of solace after Lucille’s death. The door creaked open, revealing an unlit fire and the glow of the moon shining through the window. I navigated the room in nothing but my nightgown with a dim candle to guide me.
The friction of my feet against the rug created a slow shuffling sound. My gown rustled against the shelves as I edged around the room. I let my fingers rise and fall, tracing the shapes of book covers.
Intermittently, I paused. Flashes of Lucille, her body on top of those sheets, popped into my head. She’d been so pale and cold. Those marks on her neck were made by a man who was desperate for control. Yet how could he have any when I was responsible for the manor?
I was so furious that my hands began to shake.
Thinking it best
