Julia flinched, the cruelty of Alistair's words a physical blow. She felt a wave of nausea, her headache intensifying.
Silas's smile vanished. His amber eyes hardened, losing all amusement. "I wasn't the one who locked her in the East Wing and called it compassion, Alistair. I wasn't the one who watched her spirit wither behind these walls."
"You weren't the one who found her, either," Alistair retorted, his voice rising, a raw edge of pain and defensiveness finally cracking through his cold composure. "You weren't the one who had to live with that image."
They stared at each other — two men carved by the same grief, sharpened by different guilt. The unspoken history between them hung heavy, a palpable force in the room. Julia felt caught in a dangerous current, pulled between their shared, consuming obsession with Marian.
"I'm not here to bury Marian again," Silas said, his voice now devoid of its earlier lightness, resonant with grim purpose. "I'm here to make sure her story doesn't die with her. Someone in this house wanted her gone. And it wasn't time or madness that took her. It was you. Or someone you protect. And I will uncover the truth."
Alistair lunged. It was a sudden, violent movement, born of years of festering resentment. Julia gasped and shoved between them, her hands hitting his chest. The force sent a jolt up her arms. "Stop! Stop! You want to be better than him? Then act like it! Don't descend to his level, to this animalistic rage!"
Alistair's breath was ragged, coming in sharp, tortured gasps. His fists clenched, trembling at his sides, muscles rigid. He wanted to strike. Julia could see it, feel the raw intent vibrating through him. But he didn't. His eyes, locked on Silas, burned with something closer to heartbreak than hatred, a desperate, anguished pain that momentarily eclipsed his rage.
"I loved her," he whispered, the words torn from him, a raw admission of vulnerability that stunned Julia.
Silas's voice was hollow, devoid of triumph. "So did I. And one of us let her die."
Julia turned to Silas, her face pale. "That's enough." His words were a knife, twisting the raw wound. This wasn't about Marian's memory anymore; it was about their poisonous rivalry.
He looked at her — truly looked — and something softened in his amber eyes, a flicker of understanding, perhaps even admiration. He inclined his head slightly, acknowledging her plea.
And then Julia turned back to Alistair, her voice regaining its strength, infused with a new, fierce resolve. "I won't let either of you tear each other apart over a woman neither of you truly saw. Marian wasn't just a ghost or a martyr or a possession. She was a person. And I will not be the next name whispered in tragedy because you two couldn't let the past rest. Because you are consumed by guilt and pride."
Silence.
Breathing.
Heat.
The air thrummed with the aftermath of their explosive confessions, a tension so thick it felt like something alive.
Then:
"I want him gone," Alistair said, his voice flat, dangerously calm, cutting through the silence.
"No," Julia said, immediately, instinctively, her defiance rising to meet his command.
"I want him gone," Alistair repeated, his eyes fixing on her, a chilling resolve setting in his gaze. "Out of my house. Tonight. And out of your life."
"Then you'll have to remove me too," Julia said, her voice clear, steady, echoing her internal resolve. She met his stare, an unspoken challenge in her eyes. She would not abandon Silas.
He stepped back as if she'd slapped him. The words seemed to hit him, to pierce through his carefully constructed facade. For the first time, something inside him seemed to genuinely break, revealing a flash of raw, unexpected pain, quickly masked by cold fury.
"Very well," he said coldly, his voice laced with venom. "Let him stay. Let the ghost of your precious Marian's past stay and poison this place. Let him fill your head with his accusations. But don't come to me when the rot spreads. Don't come to me when it costs you everything, Julia. Don't come to me when his poison takes hold, and you too, are lost to me."
And he turned on his heel and stormed out, his figure a dark, furious blur as he disappeared into the shadowy hall.
The door slammed behind him, shaking the chandeliers, the reverberation a tangible end to the tempest.
Julia turned to Silas, her heart pounding, her head spinning with the weight of Alistair's parting words, the chilling finality of his threat. His accusation of "rot" and "poison" echoed in her mind, a new, unsettling fear.
"Well," Silas said lightly, touching his split lip, his amber eyes assessing her, "I'd say I made quite the impression. Perhaps a temporary truce, eh? Between two men who loved the same woman, and one who seeks only truth."
But Julia didn't smile. She just stared at the heavy mahogany door, at the space where Alistair had stood, and whispered, more to herself than to him, the words heavy with a dawning dread:
"What have I done?"
*****
The slam of the dining room door was a physical shock, the reverberation echoing through the ancient bones of Blackwood Hall. It rattled Alistair's own frame. He stalked away from it, each step a raw expression of the fury that consumed him. Silas Corwin. The name was a brand on his tongue, a poison in his blood. That wretched poet, here. In his house. Touching his Julia.
He barely registered Elsie's whimpering in the shadows. His mind was a maelstrom of images: Marian's delicate face, the haunting words of Silas's poetry she'd once foolishly adored, and now, Julia, standing in front of that bastard. Protecting him. Defying Alistair.
Alistair reached his study without conscious thought. He slammed the door behind him with a force that rattled the very shelves. He strode to the liquor cabinet, pouring a measure of brandy with a trembling hand, then downed it in one burning gulp. It did little to quell the inferno within him.
She stood with him. The image was burned into his retinas: Julia, dark hair framing her pale, resolute face, her arms spread wide like a shield before Silas Corwin. His Julia, defending him. The very thought clawed at his gut, a possessive agony that twisted his handsome features. He had seen the way Silas looked at her, the way he flirted, the dangerous charm in his eyes. Just like he had looked at Marian. Just like he had poisoned Marian's mind.
Alistair paced, a caged lion, the thick Persian rug silent beneath his boots. Julia. He had seen her strength, her intelligence, her fierce determination from the moment she arrived. He had seen the way she pursued the truth about Marian, a mirror to his own desperate need to understand Marian's decline. He had wanted to protect her, to guide her. To possess her, in the purest, most elemental sense. He wanted her to look at him with that protective fire, to trust him with that unyielding spirit.
But she didn't. She trusted Corwin. Corwin, who represented everything he despised, everything he had tried to erase. Corwin, who brought back the past, the terrible, haunting past of Marian's unraveling. He remembered Marian, locked away in that East Wing, her mind slipping, her whispers growing wild. He had tried to save her. He had loved her. Truly. But she had been so lost, so obsessed with Silas, convinced he would return for her. And he hadn't. Until now.
Alistair stopped by the grand fireplace, resting his forehead against the cool marble. He had gone to London for that Lady Henswick's fever draft, desperate to find anything that might ease Julia's migraines, her fainting spells. He saw the same fragility in her, the same vulnerability to this cursed house, to the insidious whispers of the past. He saw the potential for her light to dim, just as Marian's had. And he couldn't bear it. He would not let it happen again.
He slammed his fist against the mantle, a dull thud. Julia thought he was a captor. A man obsessed with control. Perhaps she was right, in a way. He needed control. He needed to control the dangers of Blackwood Hall, the ghosts that lurked within, the very air that seemed to drive women mad. He needed to control Julia's safety, her well-being, her very thoughts. Because if he didn't, she would shatter, just like Marian. And he would lose her, just as he lost Marian. The thought was unbearable.
Corwin. He was still there, a rat, indeed. A cunning, venomous rat who knew how to burrow into minds and whisper poison. He had seen it happen with Marian.
The way she'd obsessed over him, convinced he was the only one who truly understood her. He had found her journal, discovered the secret correspondence, the desperate, coded messages. He'd burnt them all, every trace of Silas, convinced that by erasing him, he could save Marian. It hadn't worked.
And now Corwin was here, resurrected, a living ghost ready to haunt him once more. Ready to claim Julia too.
Alistair closed his eyes, picturing Julia's defiant stance, her dark hair a wild halo around her pale face, her expressive eyes blazing with a dangerous fire. She was so like Marian in her beauty, her passion, her fierce spirit. But also so different. Stronger. More resilient. And yet, perhaps, even more vulnerable to the very thing that had destroyed Marian: a love that refused to die, a passion that consumed.
He had promised to protect her. To prevent her from becoming like Marian. But how could he protect her from herself? From her own curiosity, her own reckless pursuit of a truth that could break her? How could he protect her from a man who seemed to stir Marian's ghost with every word?
His fury shifted, coalescing into a cold, determined resolve. He would deal with Corwin. Properly. But first, he had to ensure Julia's safety. And her loyalty. He would make her understand. He would make her see that he was the only one who could truly protect her, even from herself. Even from the dangerous allure of a past she refused to let rest. He would make her choose.