"Say his name."
As he spoke, the doctor's voice shook and his fingers dug into Mr. Blackwood's chest. The blood on his shirt was dark and growing, like a flower. As men rushed in and out of the room, shouting orders that no one seemed to be able to follow, rainwater ran across the marble floor.
"Thomas Blackwood," someone said in response. "Please, just do something."
I stood behind a pillar near the end of the hallway, soaked, shaking, and out of sight. No one saw the servant's daughter hiding in the shadows. Nobody thought to send me away.
Rowan knelt next to his father with red hands and wild eyes. "He is breathing," he said, his voice breaking. "Yes, he is." I can feel it.
Mr. Blackwood stayed still.
Lightning lit up his face through the tall windows. He was so still and so wrong. It looked like he had tried to say something but couldn't because his mouth was slightly open.
The doctor shook his head. "The cut is too deep." We're losing him.
Rowan said, "No." "No, no, no—"
Rowan's uncle stood behind him with one hand on his shoulder. "Be strong," he said softly. "Your dad wouldn't want you to break down."
I was sick.
Mr. Blackwood was larger than life; his voice echoed through the halls and his footsteps made people stop talking. He was now small and broken, swallowed by the same house that used to bow to him.
The doctor suddenly asked, "Where's the boy?" "His son." I need him to move.
Rowan said sharply, "I'm here."
The doctor looked at him, then softened. "You shouldn't see this."
Rowan stayed still. "I'm not going anywhere."
The doctor thought for a moment and then nodded. He pushed harder and yelled for tools, help, and time.
Time didn't say anything.
Mr. Blackwood coughed once, and it hurt and was wet. Rowan leaned forward right away.
"Please, Father?" he said.
Mr. Blackwood's eyes blinked open.
The room stopped.
Rowan's breath caught. "I'm here," he said quickly. "I'm right here."
Mr. Blackwood's eyes wandered past him, not focused. His lips moved.
Rowan moved closer. "What is it?" "Tell me."
Mr. Blackwood's eyes suddenly sharpened and focused on Rowan's face. He weakly tightened his grip on his son's sleeve.
"Trust," he said in a rough voice.
The doctor moved closer. "Sir?"
Mr. Blackwood's eyes moved from Rowan to the doctor and then to the door.
For me.
We looked at each other.
Something he couldn't read flashed across his face. Fear? Regret?
His fingers moved.
"—no one," he said in a hoarse voice.
Rowan got tense. "What's that?"
Mr. Blackwood's head fell to one side.
The doctor stopped moving and put two fingers on his neck.
The silence lasted.
The doctor said softly, "I'm sorry." "Time of death—"
Rowan yelled.
It ripped out of him, broken and raw, a sound that didn't belong in a mansion like this. He fell over his father's body, shaking, crying, and holding on like a child who didn't understand that it was over.
People started moving around in the room. Voices mixed together. There were orders. Someone gently and firmly pulled Rowan back.
I stepped back, my heart racing, and the picture stuck in my head.
The wealthy man was dead.
And nothing would ever be the same again.
Later, much later, the house became eerily quiet.
They lit the candles. Curtains closed. Servants moved quietly with their heads down. Whispers crawled through the halls like bugs.
My mother rocked back and forth on the floor of our room, her hands clasped together.
She said, "They'll kill him." "They're going to kill your dad."
I said, "They won't," but I didn't believe it. "They can't."
My dad was already gone, taken to a place I wasn't allowed to know about. We didn't know where. When my mother begged, no one answered.
Soldiers came back at dawn.
This time, they didn't yell.
They gave Rowan's uncle Mr. Blackwood's death certificate.
They gave the arrest order to my father.
Rowan stood at the top of the stairs with a hollow face and red-rimmed eyes. I watched from behind my mother. He didn't look at us. He didn't look at anyone.
Someone nearby whispered, "He did it." "The gardener killed him."
The lie got around faster than the storm.
Rowan's uncle raised his hand to ask for silence. He said in a serious tone, "Justice will be done." "My brother's killer will pay."
Rowan's jaw got tight.
Without thinking, I stepped forward. "That's not true."
The courtyard was quiet.
Rowan turned around.
Our eyes met again, but this time there was no doubt in his eyes.
Just rage.
He said in a cold voice, "You don't get to talk." "Not anymore."
The words hurt more than any hit.
My mom gasped. His stare made me feel like I was getting smaller.
Rowan said, "My father is dead," and his voice was steady in a way that scared me. "And yours is the reason why."
I shook my head, and my tears made it hard to see. "You know him." You know he wouldn't—
"I knew him," Rowan said. "And now I know you."
The doors opened.
The chains made noise.
My father was pulled out, hurt and bleeding, and his eyes were frantically looking through the crowd.
He called out, "Elara."
I tried to run to him.
Guards stopped me.
Rowan stood still and watched it all.
My father's eyes met mine, angry and desperate. He said, "Don't forget what I told you." "Truth—"
A blow stopped him.
They pulled him away.
The gates slammed shut once more.
My mother's scream cut through the morning air as I fell to the ground.
The Blackwood mansion stood tall and quiet above us.
Rowan Blackwood made a choice inside that would change both of our lives forever.
I saw his uncle lean in and whisper something in his ear as he turned away—
Something that made Rowan agree.
And smile.