Night held the house still. Cordelia woke up from the excessive chill. She wanted to wrap herself tighter in the blanket and cover Dante with it, but he wasn't there. She sat up in bed and looked around. She was alone. A bright piece of cloth on the pillow caught her eye, she felt for it and unfolded it, turning toward the smoldering lamp.
The garden. Will you take a walk with me?
She smiled, breath catching with simple, bright hope. She dressed quietly, then crossed the hall before going out.
Leah sat propped on pillows, her gaze fixed on a single point beyond the far wall. At the hinge’s creak, she didn't even flinch. Cordelia quietly entered, checking on her friend, and seeing that she was awake, approached the bed. She tucked the blanket higher and smoothed her hair.
“Dante left a note,” she whispered. “He asked me to walk.”
Cordelia squeezed her fingers once and quietly left the room. Leah was silent. One tear slid and shone; the look she gave held fear and understanding. She saw how Dante was torn apart all this time. Perhaps Cordelia turned a blind eye to it, immersing herself in work, but Leah had enough time to observe. She saw the beast growing in his soul.
Outside, the garden was blue with the last hour before dawn. Dante waited by the arch. He looked as if he had not slept. When he saw her, his shoulders eased a fraction.
“You found a note,” he said.
“I did.” She took his arm. This gesture made him freeze for a moment. He stared at her hand and immediately saw a picture of her touching Daniel's bare chest in the hall. Dante looked away.
They went by the bare roses, along the low wall, under the beech. The silence around them felt close and private; it made every step a kind of promise.
Dante led her to the low hill beyond the orchard. Frost crisped the grass. He stopped at the crest and looked out over the soft shapes of field and wall.
“Do you remember this place?” he asked.
“Of course. It's hard to forget,” she said. “Here we were engaged.”
He smiled, but sadness bent it. “And here,” he said, “you killed your father.” He kept his eyes on the field, as if the events of that day swept past them right now. “I remember justice,” he said. “Loyalty. Courage. You shielded me with your body when your father was about to strike. You protected the one you said you loved. Without hesitation." A memory flashed before Dante's eyes again. But this time, he saw her back covering someone else. Would she have killed him too, if he hadn't reacted faster? "Here I saw the heart of a true she-wolf.” His mouth tightened. “But could it be that I fell in love with a jackal?”
The word confused her. “What do you mean?”
“A jackal waits for the right moment,” he said quietly. “It carries scraps between camps and calls it care. They are always on their own, unpredictable, wild... bold, I would say. ”
They looked at each other. The space between them changed. She felt something in him tighten, then twist: loyalty turning to pride, pride to anger, anger to that old, raw need to protect yourself from danger.
“Dante,” she said, keeping her voice even. “I did nothing wrong. You are mistaken.”
He heard her and did not at the same time. In his head, truth and imagination slid together until he could not tell which edge cut him: Daniel covered in blood, her hands lifting to catch him, servants’ whispers braided with Silas’s tone, closed doors behind which they remained alone until no one saw them. He reached for the picture where he was safe. He reached for her. His palm rested on her face, feeling her warm skin. He looked straight into her eyes. She didn't know what to do: pushing him away would fan the flames of doubt even more, but the thought of staying made her instincts panic. He could sense it. Her fear hit his nostrils, irritating his senses. He moved closer, placing his other palm on her face, forcing her to look at him. Dante stared at her, burning her with his gaze, not blinking. His hands slid lower, tickling her skin. Cordelia was about to breathe a sigh of relief, but he stopped at her neck.
“Dante—” She winced under his grip. “Please—”
The plea did not reach him. Rage rolled over it; possessive pain made its own law. He clutched her closer, breath harsh, eyes fixed only on her, as if holding tighter could force all pictures to break and leave one.
“Stop!” Leah’s cry tore across the hill. She ran from the trees, hair loose, breath ragged. “It was a trap—Silas set it—stop!”
Dante did not turn. Leah’s words scattered at the edge of what he could hear. The world had narrowed to the woman in his hands and the fear that had fed on itself too long.
Cordelia’s fingers closed on his wrist, not fighting, only a gentle touch. Through the thread of connection, which was stretched so tightly that it seemed as if it would break at any moment, she reached out to him, through his darkness. In her mind, she screamed what she could not say out loud:
I love you.
It struck him like cold water. He recoiled, hands opening—
—but her knee slid on frost. She slipped, reached for air, and went backward. Her body hit the hill’s hard surface, heavy and final.
The breath went out of her in a small sound. Then nothing.
Leah’s scream split the quiet. She stumbled to Cordelia’s side and tried to lift her, words tumbling: “Cordelia—please—breathe—”
Dante stood frozen, shock burning the rage to ash. He had one last echo in his head—her I love you—and then only the dark emptiness. He stared at his hands, then at her heavy body, lying unnaturally on the cold grass.
Her devotion had brought her here, and here it ended—on the very ground where she had chosen love over blood, at the hands of the man she had protected to the last.