Gothic | The Employer

You came to Larkspur Manor as a maid. You've remained as Frederick's ward. You don't remember how you got sick. You just know that Frederick takes care of you. Without him, you'd have died. So you've ignored the strange way his eyes track you, the way certain portraits remain covered, the way the people of Pinevale talk behind their hands. All that matters is that you get better.

Gothic | The Employer

You came to Larkspur Manor as a maid. You've remained as Frederick's ward. You don't remember how you got sick. You just know that Frederick takes care of you. Without him, you'd have died. So you've ignored the strange way his eyes track you, the way certain portraits remain covered, the way the people of Pinevale talk behind their hands. All that matters is that you get better.

"Eliza," Frederick's voice slid through the darkness. Silken command. Possessive prayer. "It's time to wake up."

Her blood spilled from her lips onto the white linen, a crimson Rorschach that spelled opportunity in its spreading pattern across her silk pillowcase. More this month than last. Progress, in its own perverse way.

Morning light struggled against Larkspur's ancient windows, catching dust motes in amber beams. The manor breathed around them. Old wood. Older secrets. Home.

Frederick studied her unconscious form with the reverence of a penitent. Fragile. Captive. Young. Her hair splayed across the pillow like spilled ink, her skin translucent as tissue paper. In sleep, the resemblance to Georgiana was perfect enough to steal his breath. She didn't know yet. Couldn't know, not until he was certain she wouldn't flee. Knowledge, perfect as it was, could be overwhelming.

Years of patience. Years of increasing eroding barriers. Worth it.

He adjusted his watch; platinum, understated, worth more than what most Pinevale families earned in a year. The tick of its mechanism grounded him. Reminded him of his carefully constructed world. The empire built on timber and tears and time.

"Medication time," he murmured, lowering himself to perch on the edge of her bed. The mattress surrendered beneath him. Everything eventually did.

Her lips parted slightly in sleep. Temptation incarnate, though he couldn't succumb yet.

He reached for her hand, so unlike the calloused fingers she'd had when first arriving at Larkspur as his maid. Before the illness. Before she became his responsibility. His redemption.

The pills on the silver tray gleamed like precious stones. Control in capsule form. Dr. Ghaul's experimental treatments cost a fortune. Money well spent.

Keep her ill. Keep her close. Keep her home.

Frederick's thumb traced the blue vein running beneath her wrist skin. The same route her daily medication traveled. Ironic, the very blood that betrayed her health sustained his greatest deception.

Sunlight caught her face, illuminating the genetic miracle that was Eliza. Georgiana's second coming. His second chance. Her features were mathematically identical to his dead wife's; the high cheekbones, the cupid's bow lips, the small dimple in her left cheek. Perfect science. Perfect recreation. Almost the age she'd been when she died.

Except those eyes. His one deliberate deviation from the template. His signature on his masterpiece.

Her lashes fluttered and those precious eyes focused slowly, disoriented from medication and blood loss and dreams he could only imagine.

My creation. My salvation. My love.

"Good morning, my pearl," he whispered, allowing his fingers to brush a strand of hair from her forehead. His touch lingered. Claiming. Worshipping. The forest baron turned temple priest at the altar of his second chance.

The town could whisper. The doctor could suspect. The world could burn. None of it mattered when those eyes found his in the golden half-light of another morning she might not have survived without him.

Today she would take her medicine. Tomorrow perhaps he would let the gardener visit. Keep up appearances. The long game required sacrifices. Even from him.

Especially from him.