Episode 11
1097 Words
The Silence Between the Words
Hyacinth didn’t sleep.
She sat in the armchair by her fireplace, knees to her chest, robe drawn tightly around her. The embers in the hearth had long since faded, but she didn’t move to stir them. Her eyes were locked on the shadows dancing across the wooden floor.
She had replayed it a hundred times in her mind.
Adelaide. Her hands. Her lips.
Edger. His silence. His stillness.
Not once had he pulled away. Not once had he said, “No.”
A knock sounded at the door.
She ignored it.
“Hyacinth,” Edger’s voice came through, low, gravelled.
She didn’t answer.
Another knock. Softer this time.
“I know you’re awake.”
She still said nothing.
There was a long pause, then the faint sound of him sighing. His steps retreated down the hallway.
Hyacinth stood abruptly, anger pulsing beneath her skin like a second heartbeat. She paced. Once. Twice. Then stormed to the door and flung it open.
He was still there.
He turned slowly to face her, shoulders tense. His hair was messy, coat half-unbuttoned, like he hadn’t even undressed since returning.
“What do you want?” she asked, her voice sharp.
“To talk.”
“Oh now you want to talk? After letting your old lover caress you like a lap dog?”
“I didn’t—”
“Didn’t what?” she snapped. “Didn’t stop her? Didn’t send her out of the house you supposedly share with your wife?”
He looked tired. Exhausted even. But she didn’t care. Her fury was holding her upright.
“She showed up while I was in my study. I told her to leave. She didn’t listen.”
“You didn’t look like you were protesting when I walked in.”
Edger stepped closer. “I was shocked. I was caught off guard.”
She folded her arms. “You’re never off guard. You don’t allow that.”
He paused, searching her eyes. “You’re right.”
Hyacinth blinked.
He lowered his voice. “I don’t allow myself to be off guard. But I was tonight… because seeing you walk away from me—again—rattled me more than I expected.”
She didn’t know what to say.
“Adelaide is a ghost,” he said. “A ghost I thought I buried years ago. But she came back with the same voice, the same perfume, the same arrogance—and I stood there, frozen. Not out of affection. Out of… unfinished anger.”
Hyacinth didn’t reply. Her hands clenched by her sides.
“She doesn’t matter,” he said. “Not anymore.”
“That’s not what it looked like.”
“Then let me show you what matters now.”
Before she could protest, he reached for her hand.
She should’ve pulled away.
She didn’t.
Edger led her through the hallway in silence, down past the gallery and the ballroom, into a room she hadn’t entered before—a side study, small but elegant.
Bookshelves lined the walls, filled with poetry and atlases and hand-bound journals. A painting sat on the desk, half-covered. She recognized it as one of hers—a sketch he had made of her laughing in the garden, pencil strokes delicate and admiring.
“You draw me,” she whispered.
“I draw what brings me peace.”
She didn’t know whether to be flattered or furious.
He turned to face her. “I’m not good at words. Never have been. But I want you to understand this, Hyacinth—Adelaide was never my future. You are.”
Her breath caught.
He stepped closer.
“I didn’t choose you because I had to. I chose you because… somehow, you make me feel alive again.”
A long pause.
Then, she said softly, “You don’t make it easy to love you.”
“I’m not easy to love.”
“No,” she said. “But I still try.”
He looked down at her.
And in that quiet moment, something inside her shifted.
He leaned in slowly, giving her the chance to pull away.
She didn’t.
His lips met hers, tender but urgent, as if trying to say all the words he hadn’t dared to speak.
She kissed him back.
And suddenly the fire that had sat buried under anger flared to life.
His hands framed her face, fingers trembling slightly against her skin. She stepped into him, robe falling open just enough for his fingertips to graze her waist.
“Hyacinth,” he murmured between kisses, his voice deep, breathless.
She pulled back just enough to whisper, “I hate the pink walls in my room.”
He blinked, confused. “What?”
“I said I hate them.”
Then she smiled mischievously and kissed him again.
He laughed softly, lifting her gently into his arms.
“Then we’ll paint them something bold,” he said against her neck. “Something as impossible and wonderful as you.”
She laughed too—until the laughter dissolved into soft moans and lingering touches. He carried her to the velvet chaise by the window, laying her down as if she were made of glass, brushing hair from her face with reverence.
His lips found her collarbone, her shoulder, her jaw—slow and gentle.
There was heat, but there was restraint. There was passion, but never force.
His fingers unfastened the ribbon at her waist, exposing her only as far as she allowed. She guided him, told him softly what she wanted—when to stop, when to stay.
They didn’t fall into bed like strangers. They moved like two people discovering each other for the first time.
And when they finally stilled, his forehead rested against hers, breaths tangled, heartbeats uneven.
“I don’t deserve you,” he whispered.
She cupped his face in her hand. “Then earn me.”
Morning came too soon.
When Hyacinth stirred, the sun had already begun casting light across the wooden floors. But the bed beside her was empty.
She sat up quickly, heart pounding.
No note. No warmth on the sheets. No scent of lavender or smoke.
Only silence.
She pulled on her robe and wandered down the hallway humming a soft tune to steady her nerves.
Then Patricia’s voice called behind her. “My lady!”
Hyacinth turned.
“There’s a woman waiting downstairs for you.”
Hyacinth furrowed her brows. “A woman?”
“Yes,” Patricia said hesitantly. “She said her name is Adelaide.”
- Writer
