She knelt beside Rosaline, her hands trembling as she pressed them to the heroine's shoulder, trying to staunch the flow of blood. The fabric of Rosaline's gown was saturated, crimson spreading like ink across the pale, silken material.
"Rosaline," Isla whispered, her voice shaking. "Stay with me."
Adrian was already barking orders, his voice sharp and commanding. "Thomas! Get the physician—now!"
Thomas didn't hesitate. He turned on his heel and sprinted toward the manor, his boots pounding against the cobblestones. Clara hovered nearby, her face pale, her hands clasped tightly in front of her chest as though she didn't know what to do.
"I-Is she going to be okay?" Clara asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
"I don't know," Isla said, her throat tightening. She looked down at Rosaline's face, so delicate and serene even now. This wasn't supposed to happen. Rosaline was the heroine of the novel, the one destined for happiness and triumph. She wasn't supposed to be lying here, bleeding out on the cold ground.
Adrian knelt beside Isla, his jaw clenched, his expression grim. "What happened? Did you see anything?"
Isla shook her head, helpless. "No. I was with you. I didn't even hear anyone approach."
Adrian's gray eyes flicked to the dark edges of the garden, scanning the shadows as though expecting someone—or something—to emerge. "This wasn't random," he said, his voice low. "Whoever did this knew exactly what they were doing."
"Why Rosaline?" Isla asked, her voice breaking. "She has nothing to do with this."
Adrian's gaze snapped back to her, and for a moment, something flickered in his eyes—something that looked like guilt. But before Isla could dwell on it, the sound of hurried footsteps announced Thomas's return, the physician trailing closely behind him.
"Move aside," the physician ordered, his tone brusque but not unkind.
Isla reluctantly stepped back, her hands stained with Rosaline's blood. She watched as the physician bent over the unconscious girl, his movements efficient and precise.
"She's alive," he said after a tense moment, "but only barely. We need to get her inside immediately."
Adrian didn't wait for further instructions. He scooped Rosaline into his arms as though she weighed nothing and strode toward the manor, his face a mask of determination.
Isla stood frozen for a moment, her mind racing. This was wrong. All of it. Rosaline wasn't supposed to be here tonight, let alone lying on the brink of death.
"Eva," Clara said softly, touching her arm.
Isla turned to her friend, startled. Clara's eyes were wide with worry, her lips pressed into a thin line.
"Come on," Clara said gently. "Let's go inside."
Isla nodded numbly, allowing Clara to guide her back toward the manor.
---
The atmosphere inside Blackthorn Manor was heavy, the earlier revelry of the ball now a distant memory. Servants moved quickly and quietly through the halls, their faces etched with concern. Most of the guests had already left, though a few stragglers lingered in the foyer, whispering among themselves.
Isla stood near the grand staircase, her arms wrapped tightly around herself as she watched Adrian disappear with the physician and Rosaline into one of the guest rooms. The image of Rosaline's blood-stained gown was burned into her mind, and she couldn't shake the sick feeling that this was somehow her fault.
"Lady Evangeline," a familiar voice said, breaking through her thoughts.
She turned to see Elias leaning casually against a nearby pillar, his smirk notably absent for once. His hazel eyes were sharp, watching her with an intensity that made her uncomfortable.
"What do you want, Elias?" she asked, her voice more brittle than she intended.
He straightened, his expression unreadable. "Just checking to see how you're holding up. That was quite the scene back there."
"I'm fine," she said quickly, though the tremor in her voice betrayed her.
Elias tilted his head, studying her. "Fine, huh? You don't look fine."
Isla glared at him, her frustration bubbling to the surface. "If you have something to say, just say it."
He held up his hands in mock surrender. "Easy, my lady. I'm on your side, remember?"
"Are you?" she shot back. "Because you always seem to show up at the most convenient times without giving me any real answers."
Elias's smirk returned, but it was softer this time, almost sad. "I told you before—I have my reasons."
"And I'm supposed to just trust you?"
"That's up to you," he said, his tone light but his eyes serious. "But I will say this: whoever attacked Rosaline tonight, they weren't after her. She was just in the wrong place at the wrong time."
Isla's chest tightened. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying you need to be careful, Lady Evangeline," Elias said, his voice dropping. "You've made enemies—you and Adrian both. Don't underestimate them."
Before she could respond, he turned and walked away, disappearing into the shadows of the hall.
---
Later that night, Isla found herself wandering the halls aimlessly, unable to sleep. Her thoughts were a tangled mess, and her heart felt heavy with guilt and uncertainty.
She eventually found her way to the library, a quiet sanctuary in the midst of the chaos. The room was dimly lit, the faint scent of old parchment and leather-bound books filling the air.
Clara was already there, curled up in one of the armchairs with a blanket draped over her lap. She looked up as Isla entered, her face softening.
"Couldn't sleep either?" Clara asked.
Isla shook her head, sinking into the chair opposite her friend. "I can't stop thinking about Rosaline. About everything."
Clara reached out and took Isla's hand, her touch warm and grounding. "None of this is your fault, Isla."
"Isn't it?" Isla whispered, her voice trembling. "Rosaline wouldn't even be here if it weren't for me. She's the heroine, Clara. She's supposed to have a happy ending."
Clara frowned, her brow furrowing. "What are you talking about? Heroine? Happy ending? Isla, you're not making any sense."
Isla hesitated, realizing too late that she'd let her thoughts slip. "I just mean... she doesn't deserve this. She's kind and good and... and I'm not."
Clara's grip on her hand tightened. "Don't say that. You are good, Isla. You care about people—you care about Rosaline, even though you barely know her. That says a lot about the kind of person you are."
Isla looked away, her throat tightening. She didn't feel good. She felt like an imposter, a fraud pretending to be someone she wasn't.
"Thomas said Rosaline's stable," Clara added, her voice gentle. "The physician thinks she'll recover."
Isla let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. "That's good. That's... really good."
Clara smiled faintly. "You should get some rest, Eva. You've had a long day."
"I will," Isla lied, knowing she wouldn't.
---
The following morning, the manor was subdued, the usual hum of activity muted in the wake of last night's events. Isla sat in the breakfast room, picking at a plate of fruit and pastries she had no appetite for. Across the table, Clara and Thomas sat side by side, their heads bent together as they whispered.
Isla watched them, a small smile tugging at her lips despite everything. There was something so natural about the way they interacted, the way Clara's laughter seemed to soften Thomas's usually stern demeanor.
"Are you two plotting something?" Isla asked, her tone light.
Clara looked up, her cheeks flushing. "No! We were just... talking."
Thomas cleared his throat, looking anywhere but at Isla. "I was merely advising Lady Clara on self-defense techniques."
Clara rolled her eyes. "He thinks I need to carry a dagger with me everywhere I go now."
"After last night, I'd say that's not a bad idea," Thomas said, his tone serious.
Clara sighed but didn't argue, her fingers absently tracing patterns on the edge of her plate.
Isla's gaze drifted to the window, where the gardens stretched out in a patchwork of autumn colors. The world outside looked so peaceful, so normal, and yet everything felt like it was falling apart.
"Adrian's with Rosaline," Thomas said after a moment, breaking the silence. "He's been there all morning."
Isla's chest tightened. Of course, he was with Rosaline. She was the heroine, after all—the one he was supposed to protect, the one he was supposed to love.
Clara reached across the table, squeezing Isla's hand. "You should talk to him."
Isla shook her head. "No. He doesn't need me there."
Clara frowned but didn't push.
---
As the day wore on, Isla found herself standing outside Rosaline's room, her hand hovering over the door handle. She could hear the murmur of voices inside—Adrian's low and steady, the physician's calm and clinical.
She hesitated, her heart pounding. What would she even say?
Before she could decide, the door opened, and Adrian stepped out. He stopped short when he saw her, his expression unreadable.
"Evangeline," he said, his voice softer than she expected.
"I just... wanted to check on her," she said quickly, avoiding his gaze.
"She's stable," Adrian said. "She'll recover."
Relief washed over her, but it was quickly followed by a wave of guilt. "That's good. I'm glad."
Adrian studied her for a moment, his gray eyes searching hers. "This wasn't your fault, Isla."
She looked up at him, startled. "How can you say that? I—"
"Stop," he said firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Whatever you're blaming yourself for, stop. You didn't do this."
Tears pricked at her eyes, but she blinked them back, nodding. "Okay."
Adrian's expression softened, and for a moment, she thought he might say more. But then he stepped aside, gesturing toward the door.
"Go on," he said. "She might not be awake, but... I think she'd like to have you there."
Isla hesitated, then nodded, stepping into the room.