Ashford Manor had grown quiet. Too quiet.
Since the arrest of Nathaniel's brother and the revelation of Isabella's death, the oppressive air had lifted from the great halls. The staff moved without the usual weight in their steps, the portraits seemed less accusing, and the east wing, though still blackened, no longer whispered in the night.
And yet Eleanor Whitmore could not rest.
She stood by her chamber window, watching mist coil over the gardens. The roses, long withered, looked like bloodless corpses beneath the moon. She pressed her shawl tighter around her shoulders, though the chill she felt came not from the air but from something nameless—an unease she could not shake.
Nathaniel had changed too. Once brooding, distant, a man of shadows, he now allowed himself moments of warmth. He laughed softly at dinner when Eleanor teased his sternness, and sometimes, when he thought she did not notice, his eyes lingered on her with a gentleness that melted the iron of his exterior.
