A few days had passed since the night Chantelle tried to twist her mind against herself. Nicole had done her best to fall back into routine painting quietly, caring for Vincent and Juliet, pretending that dawn had not come with blood and anguish. But the weight of that secret still pressed on her chest, heavy and unspoken.
That morning, the children had finally fallen asleep in their cribs, and the chamber was silent except for the faint scratching of her brush against canvas. Nicole found herself glancing toward the far corner of the room, where several canvases sat shrouded beneath a draped cloth.
She knew what lay beneath.
Her chest tightened. Those paintings weren't hers not really. They belonged to the duchess, born from the days when darkness had slipped into her mind and guided her hand. Back then, she had been little more than a vessel, dragged into visions she could neither resist nor understand.
