Dawn bled through the cracks in Jack's quarters, staining the walls the color of old bruises. He hadn't slept. The note—"carve the truth from her bones"—lay on his desk, its edges singed where he'd held it too close to a candle. Fear, sharp and acidic, coiled in his gut. Who are "they"? The novel had never mentioned shadowy conspirators beyond Evangeline's obvious foes. Had his interference rewritten the story, or had this threat always existed, lurking between the pages?
A knock shattered the silence.
"Lady Vossaire demands your presence," a servant called. "The ivory parlor. Now."
Jack straightened his cuffs, the fabric still reeking of smoke and sweat from the ball. His reflection in the mirror was a stranger: Riven's face, but shadows pooled beneath his eyes, betraying the man beneath. Two lifetimes of exhaustion, he thought grimly.
Evangeline stood at the parlor window when he entered, her back to him, fingers tracing the spine of a leather-bound book. Sunlight gilded her unbound hair, transforming it into liquid shadow. Without her masks—literal or metaphorical—she looked younger, almost fragile. The illusion vanished when she spoke.
"You reek of guilt, Riven."
He froze. "My lady?"
She turned, her eyes cold as midwinter. In her hand was the maid's note. "Care to explain?"
How? He'd burned it. Unless… The maid was hers all along. A test. His jaw tightened. "You set a trap."
"Obviously." She tossed the book onto a chaise. Its title glared up at him: The Art of Subterfuge. "But you walked into it willingly. Tell me, did you truly think I wouldn't notice your little heroics?"
Jack met her gaze. "I thought you'd have the decency to thank me."
A muscle twitched in her cheek. She closed the distance between them, her voice dropping to a whisper. "You saved a traitor. You lied to me. You've been lying since you woke up in that damned uniform." Her thumb pressed against his pulse point, as if measuring the truth in his veins. "Who. Are. You?"
The truth teetered on his tongue. I'm not Riven. I've seen your future. You die alone, hated, your name a curse. But fear sealed his lips—fear of her wrath, fear of unraveling this fragile second chance.
"I'm no one," he said.
Her laugh was brittle. "No one risks their neck for 'no one.'" She withdrew, her composure snapping back into place. "You have until sunset to confess. Otherwise, I'll let the hounds decide what you're worth."
The gardens offered no solace. Jack wandered the hedge maze, its thorns snagging his sleeves like skeletal fingers. His mind raced. Confess, and she'll think me mad. Stay silent, and I'm dead. Both paths led to ruin.
A cough rattled behind him.
An old gardener knelt in the dirt, pruning roses with gnarled hands. His face was a map of wrinkles, but his eyes—amber and unclouded—pierced Jack. "You've got the look of a man who's danced with death twice and wonders why she keeps asking."
Jack paused. "Do I?"
The man snipped a rose, its petals black as a starless night. "Lady Vossaire's favorite. Rosa Noctis. Beautiful, isn't it?" He held it out. "Careful, though. Its thorns are venomous."
Jack reached for it, but the gardener yanked it back. "Ah-ah. First, a trade. Answers for answers."
"Who are you?"
"Oren. The man who planted every rose in this garden. And you?" His gaze sharpened. "You're not Riven."
Jack's blood turned to ice. "How—"
"The old Riven hated roses. Said they reminded him of graves." Oren tucked the black rose into Jack's lapel. "But you? You stare at them like they're a puzzle. Like her."
Jack hesitated. Desperation outweighed caution. "What do you know about Evangeline?"
Oren's smile faded. "She wasn't always this way. Once, she wept when I pruned the roses. Said it hurt them." He stood, brushing soil from his knees. "Then her father died. Her brother vanished. The world carved her into a weapon. Now, she wields herself before anyone else can."
The words struck a chord. Jack's own past—loneliness, silence, the slow erosion of hope—mirrored hers in reverse. We're both ghosts, he realized. Haunting different worlds.
"Why tell me this?" he asked.
"Because you look at her like you want to unbreak her." Oren shouldered his shears. "Sunset's coming. Best decide what you're willing to lose."
Evangeline awaited him in the dungeon.
Jack's boots echoed on the damp stones as he descended, the air thickening with the stench of rust and rot. She stood before an iron cage, her gown swapped for a razor-edged riding habit. Inside the cage, the maid from the ball cowered, her face streaked with grime.
"Last chance, Riven." Evangeline gestured to a tray of instruments—knives, pliers, a vial of something iridescent. "Confess, or watch her scream."
The maid's eyes pleaded with him. I'm sorry, he wanted to say. But this was Evangeline's game: force him to choose between his conscience and his secrets.
"You want the truth?" Jack stepped forward, his voice steady. "Then ask better questions."
Her eyebrow arched. "Excuse me?"
"You've spent years trusting no one. Building walls. Burying whoever gets too close." He held her gaze, Oren's words burning in his chest. "But what if I'm not here to betray you? What if I'm here to…" Save you? The words clung to his throat, too raw, too dangerous.
Evangeline's mask slipped—just a crack. A flicker of something like longing. Then she seized the vial and pressed it to the maid's lips. "What if isn't good enough."
"Wait!" Jack gripped her wrist. The vial trembled between them. "I'm not from this world. I've read your story. All of it."
Silence.
The maid sobbed. Evangeline's breath hitched, her pulse wild beneath his fingers. "Explain."
So he did.
He spoke of trucks and cubicles, of a novel called Crimson Thorns, of her fate as a doomed villainess. He told her of Riven's death, the ball, the note. Her face remained unreadable, but her grip on the vial loosened.
When he finished, she stepped back. "You expect me to believe this… delusion?"
"No." He smiled faintly. "But you've believed worse lies."
For a heartbeat, the dungeon faded. There was only her, studying him like a cipher she'd finally deciphered. Then she shattered the vial against the wall, its contents hissing as they ate through the stone.
"Leave us," she ordered the maid.
The girl fled. Evangeline turned to Jack, her voice trembling with fury and fascination. "If you're telling the truth… then you know how this ends."
"It doesn't have to."
"You're a fool," she whispered.
"Maybe." He reached for her hand, ignoring the knives, the cage, the world narrowing to this single, reckless act. "But I'd rather be a fool than watch you become a ghost."
She didn't pull away.
Chapter 3 End.