The moon cast a pallid glow over Ivy Cottage as Eliza hunched at her escritoire, the charred fragment of Margaret Hale's letter spread before her. The words *"…debts owed…consequences…"* taunted her, their edges curled like claws. A knock startled her—Clara hovered in the doorway, a candle in hand.
"Spying on secrets again?" Clara whispered, her eyes alight.
"Assisting them to spy on *us*," Eliza replied, sliding the letter aside. "Fetch *The Mysteries of Udolpho*. If we're to decode this, we'll need every gothic trope at our disposal."
* * *
Morning brought no clarity, only Mrs. Woodhouse's decree: a dinner party at Willowmere, "to showcase our *refinement* and coax Mr. Ashford from his shell!" Marianne, tasked with selecting floral arrangements, fretted over hothouse lilies. "What if he hates lilies? What if he hates *me*?"
"He doesn't hate you," Eliza said, tucking a bloom into her sister's hair. "He merely… resents joy on principle."
* * *
At Willowmere, Mr. Ashford paced his study, ledgers sprawled like fallen soldiers. Margaret entered, her shawl trailing like a shadow. "You've told her nothing," she observed.
"There's nothing *to* tell."
"Liar. She's cleverer than you credit. She'll uncover it all—the debts, the duel, *her*."
He slammed a ledger shut. "Margaret—"
A cough wracked her frame. "You cannot outrun his sins, Theodore. Nor your own."
* * *
The dinner party unfolded beneath a chandelier's icy glitter. Mrs. Woodhouse held court, extolling Marianne's virtues to a bemused Margaret. Eliza, seated beside Mr. Ashford, noted his taut silence.
"Your orchids thrive," she ventured. "A testament to stubbornness?"
"To futility," he muttered. "They bloom only to wither."
Across the table, Clara interrogated a bemused vicar on "the moral weight of unpaid debts."
"Miss Woodhouse," Margaret interjected suddenly, "do you believe in ghosts?"
Eliza's spine straightened. "Only those we create ourselves, Mrs. Hale."
"How wise." Margaret's smile was knife-sharp. "My brother fears the ones in his ledger."
Mr. Ashford's fork clattered against porcelain.
* * *
Later, Eliza cornered him in the conservatory. "What duel? Who is *her*?"
He whirled, eyes storm-dark. "You mistake my home for your novel, madam. There are no villains here—only fools."
"Then why burn the letter?" She stepped closer. "Why let Margaret bear your secrets alone?"
His breath hitched. For a heartbeat, the mask slipped—grief, guilt, *want*—before he turned away. "Leave it be, Eliza."
She faltered at the use of her name. "Or what? You'll banish me to the library?"
A bitter laugh. "If only it were that simple."
* * *
The evening ended in disarray. As the Woodhouses departed, a rider galloped up the drive—a gaunt stranger in a mud-spattered coat.
"Mr. Ashford!" the man barked. "I've come from London. Your father's debts are called due."
Margaret's gasp echoed through the night. Eliza's hand found Clara's, squeezing tight.
Mr. Ashford stood rigid, his voice cold as stone. "You'll have your money."
"Money?" The stranger grinned, teeth yellow in the lantern light. "It's not *money* we want."
* * *
Back at Ivy Cottage, Eliza unfolded a new note, slipped into her glove during the chaos:
*"Meet me at dawn. The truth has thorns. —T.A."*
Outside, thunder growled. Somewhere, a clock struck midnight.