The faded list bearing the names of Lydia and Seraphina was like venom coursing through Eleanor Croft's veins—burning, electrifying, awakening her vengeance with fevered intensity. Yet it also tightened her discipline like the most intricate clockwork. One false step, one flicker of recklessness, and she would shatter the fragile cover she had worked so hard to weave.
So she doubled down on her role as "Lady Croft."
She was seen more often among the women in the churchyard, her expression gentler than before, at times even softening into the pale smile expected of a young wife still recovering from illness. She listened, she shared needlework tips, she inquired after Father Pete's health with tender concern, and let slip an occasional, carefully measured curiosity about the church's old histories and forgotten tales. All of it folded seamlessly into the persona of a "convalescent bride—more devout than ever, intrigued by the world her husband served."
"That illness truly frightened me," she confided once to Lady Anna, her fingers ghosting over her chest as though reliving the fear. "At times, I feel as though I've forgotten so much… and at others, that I see everything differently than before."
A perfect explanation for any detachment she might show from Warren's past—an ailment's aftereffect, a soul reshaped by sickness.
Old Nurse Martha would always chime in with heartfelt pity: "Yes, yes, thank the Holy Mother you survived, my lady. You must rest, truly rest."
Lucien's fear of her persisted, but it dulled into routine. He hid within the agony of his bond with Gabriel, and as long as Eleanor did not press him, he preferred the suffocating illusion of calm—an ostrich burying its head in the sand, clinging to silence as though silence alone might keep the nightmare at bay.
But no masquerade is seamless. Every taut string will one day be struck by accident.
The fissure appeared only days later.
A viscountess of considerable standing came to the church to arrange her newborn's baptism. Afterward, as courtesy dictated, she and her retinue were invited into the side hall for refreshments, attended by several priests—including Lucien—and their wives.
Eleanor dressed with care in her best dark gown, her hair neat, her eyes downcast, every inch the quiet, well-bred priest's wife who sought to fade into the background.
The mood in the hall was warm enough. The viscountess accepted compliments with delicate pride, spoke of her child's health and her family's honor. Inevitably, the conversation turned toward other noble houses.
"Such a pity about the Flemings," the viscountess sighed, dabbing her lips with an embroidered handkerchief. "Their eldest daughter, Eleanor Fleming—I recall she was a quiet, lovely girl. And then to hear she passed away so suddenly of illness… a true tragedy. Beauty gone too soon."
Crash!
A sharp crack split the air.
Every gaze turned at once.
It was Eleanor Croft. Her porcelain teacup lay shattered at her feet, steaming liquid staining her skirts, fragments scattered like shards of bone.
Her face was white as marble, her body swayed, her knuckles bleached as she gripped the armrest for support. In that instant, hearing her true name, her true death dismissed as nothing more than a gentle euphemism, the tidal wave of grief and rage nearly tore through the barricades of her mind.
Her ice-gray eyes blazed, if only for a heartbeat, with something raw and unguarded—anguish, shock, fury at the absurdity of her own "death" spoken so lightly. A lightning flash, gone as swiftly as it came, yet too fierce to be mistaken.
The hall froze.
Lucien's face drained of blood, his back drenched in cold sweat. He stared at Eleanor in horror, then at the viscountess, the priests, his lips quivering uselessly. His mind screamed only one thought: It's over. She's exposed. We're finished.
Martha gasped aloud, hands flying to her mouth.
The viscountess arched her perfectly groomed brows, displeasure and curiosity flickering in her eyes.
Then, in a single breath, Eleanor shut her eyes. When she opened them again, the storm had been buried, smothered under trembling composure. One hand pressed faintly to her temple, her voice quavered with shame:
"A thousand apologies, my lady… Father… I—I felt suddenly dizzy, a wave of weakness. My illness… it seems I have not yet fully recovered. Forgive my clumsiness. I meant no disturbance."
The excuse was flawless. Who would doubt that a young woman, "just risen from her sickbed," might suffer a faint spell and drop a cup?
The presiding priest was the first to act, though annoyance lingered beneath his courtesy: "Ah, poor Lady Croft. Health must come first. Martha, see her to her chambers at once."
The viscountess's irritation softened into condescending pity. "Then you must rest, child. Do not overexert yourself. Youth should not make one reckless."
She accepted the explanation, and with it, the illusion of frailty Eleanor cloaked herself in.
Martha hurried forward, taking Eleanor's arm.
Supported thus, Eleanor rose unsteadily, head bowed, her voice faint: "Forgive me again, my lady… such disgrace."
Step by step she left the hall, the picture of a fragile wife mortified by her own public weakness.
Only once the echoing corridor swallowed them did Eleanor's body loosen, though her back was slick with cold sweat.
Too close.
That moment—when the gallows returned in all their torment, when hatred surged beyond her control—her mask had nearly shattered.
She had covered it, barely. But the warning was etched deep. To the name Eleanor Fleming and the falsehood of her "death," her very soul responded with instinct too violent to be contained.
From here on, she must tread even more carefully.
The viscountess's casual words—"Beauty gone too soon"—stabbed at her like a needle. Yes, in their eyes, Eleanor Fleming was already gone, silent, forgotten.
What remained was only a revenant in borrowed flesh, a spirit of vengeance who must hide more deeply than any ghost, wait more patiently than any serpent.
Cracks can be concealed.
But never again can they be allowed to appear.