Episode10
1027 Words
What burns beneath
Three days had passed since Edger’s departure.
Hyacinth didn’t know what day it was anymore. She only knew the colour of the sky outside her window, and the sound of silence in the hallways. She hadn’t touched her embroidery or written in her journal. She had barely eaten. And no matter how much she pretended otherwise, she was drowning in doubt.
Adelaide’s voice echoed in her mind with a kind of venom only truth could carry.
"I was with him the night you arrived."
"He still loves me."
The worst part wasn’t the boldness.
The worst part was the possibility.
That afternoon, Hyacinth sat in the drawing room across from Harold and his wife, Prisca. The tea was untouched. The room warm and golden. But she was ice.
“Something is wrong,” Prisca said softly, looking at Hyacinth with concern.
Hyacinth hesitated, then looked at Harold. “It’s Adelaide. She came here. While Edger was away.”
Harold shot up from his seat. “She did what?”
“She said she was with Edger when I arrived. That he still belongs to her.”
“Unbelievable,” Prisca muttered, folding her arms.
Harold rubbed his forehead, pacing. “She has no right—”
“Is it true?” Hyacinth asked quietly.
Harold stopped. Looked at her.
She didn’t say anything else, but her eyes demanded honesty.
Harold sat back down slowly, the air in the room heavy.
“She was someone once,” he said carefully. “But what matters now is that she is not someone anymore.”
“That’s not an answer.”
He looked at Prisca, who nodded silently.
“I’ll tell you what matters more than Adelaide,” he said finally. “It’s understanding the kind of man Edger became. And why.”
Hyacinth blinked. “Go on.”
Harold leaned forward, voice lowered, almost protective. “Our father was... dangerous. Not in the way that made you scared of punishment. In the way that made you afraid to breathe the wrong way.”
Hyacinth said nothing.
“He hated softness,” Harold continued. “He called it weakness. And Edger... Edger was never soft, but he was sensitive. Brilliant, thoughtful, particular. Father didn’t like that. He wanted obedience. Steel. And when he didn’t get it—he lashed out.”
Hyacinth swallowed. “He hit him?”
“More than that. He humiliated him. He controlled everything. What he wore. What he read. What he could say. I once saw him rip apart one of Edger’s paintings because it wasn’t of something ‘masculine.’ He took his violin and smashed it across a table just because he was playing during a thunderstorm.”
Hyacinth flinched. “That’s—”
“Sickening,” Prisca whispered. “And the worst part was their mother.”
Hyacinth looked up. “Lady Guinevere?”
“She never protected him,” Harold said bitterly. “She would sit there, silent. Looking down at her hands. I don’t know if it was fear, or if she just didn’t care enough. But Edger never forgave her for it.”
“She’d pat his head after the outbursts,” Prisca added. “As if that would fix it. Wipe the blood from his nose, press a cold cloth to his wrist—and then tell him not to provoke his father next time.”
Hyacinth felt a heat spread through her chest. “That’s why he’s distant from her.”
Harold nodded. “He sees her as complicit.”
Hyacinth looked away, chest tight. It explained the tension she’d always felt between mother and son—the stiffness, the cold civility. It wasn’t just distance. It was betrayal.
“And yet,” she whispered, “he’s still standing.”
“He had to be strong long before he ever became a man,” Harold said, gently. “But I’ll tell you this, Hyacinth... since you arrived, I’ve seen a change. He listens again. He doesn’t disappear into silence like he used to.”
Hyacinth managed a small smile. “You think I’ve made a difference?”
Harold reached for her hand. “I think you’ve given him a reason to hope again.”
It was already late by the time she escorted them to their carriage.
“Thank you for the tea,” Prisca said warmly, hugging her. “And for trusting us.”
Harold kissed her hand. “Take care of yourself. And of him.”
She watched their carriage roll off into the night.
By the time she returned inside, the air had turned cooler. Patricia met her at the base of the stairs, yawning.
“It’s getting late, my lady.”
“I just want to check the drawing room before bed.”
Patricia nodded, rubbing her arms. “Don’t stay too long.”
Hyacinth moved quietly down the hallway.
Then paused.
She heard voices.
Soft. A laugh. A woman’s.
Her heart stopped.
She turned to the direction of the sound.
It was coming from Edger’s den.
She crept closer, every step a betrayal. The door was ajar.
She stopped breathing.
Adelaide was perched on the edge of the desk, her fingers curled around Edger’s collar. Her dress was dark, elegant, unwrinkled—like she belonged there. Her hair was down. Her perfume lingered in the air.
Edger stood close. Very close.
She leaned in, whispering something into his ear.
He didn’t move.
Didn’t pull away.
Didn’t stop her when she kissed his cheek—slowly. Deliberately. Her lips so close to his that it made Hyacinth’s stomach turn.
Hyacinth gasped.
The sound escaped her before she could trap it.
Both heads turned.
“Hyacinth,” Adelaide purred. “You’re up late.”
Edger looked at her like a man caught on fire. “Hyacinth—wait—”
But she had already run.
Back in her room, she slammed the door shut, chest heaving.
He didn’t push Adelaide away.
He didn’t stop her.
He just stood there.
She stared at her reflection in the mirror. Eyes wide. Skin pale. Lips trembling.
How quickly things change.
How foolish hope can be.
- Writer
