Page 117 of Bound By Crimson
She lay in bed staring at the ceiling, trying to breathe deeply, trying not to think about Mrs. Thornwick.
But the words came back anyway.
“He used to sneak into my bed at night… So affectionate… Said no woman would ever love him the way I did…”
Lyric turned over. Then again. The silk sheets felt too smooth, too cold.
Nineteen.She kept coming back to that. Kai had been nineteen when his father died. Not a child. A teenager. A man.
And the way she’d said it—fond, wistful… it hadn’t felt maternal. It had felt possessive.
Lyric squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself to sleep. But it never came.
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By morning, her body ached from exhaustion, but her mind was sharp. She dressed slowly, thankful when she entered the dining room to find only a single place set. Breakfast alone. She could breathe.
Afterward, unsure what to do with herself, she wandered out to the gardens. The air was crisp, and the sun was just warm enough to cut the chill.
She let her fingers brush the hedges as she walked. Her feet stirred loose gravel along the winding path.
This was her favorite place on the estate—wide open and real.
She heard someone clearing their throat and turned.
A man stood a few yards away, holding a rake. Mid-forties maybe, sun-lined skin, strong hands. He tipped his cap.
“Didn’t mean to startle you, miss. Just getting some of the frost off the walkways.”
Lyric smiled faintly. “It’s okay. I didn’t know anyone else was out here.”
“Name’s Walter. Just started yesterday.” He extended a hand, which she shook politely. “You must be Miss Lyric.”
She nodded. “That obvious?”
He chuckled. “Word travels fast around here. Especially when someone new moves in. This place may be big, but it’s not quiet. Not really.”
She tilted her head. “What do you mean?”
Walter looked around like he was checking for ears, but not seriously. More habit than fear.
“My wife didn’t want me to take the job,” he said casually. “She’s a superstitious one. Said the house was cursed. Said the last gardener left in the middle of the night. Never even came back for his pay.”
Lyric’s smile faded just slightly.
Walter noticed. “Didn’t mean to spook you. I don’t put much stock in stories. But people talk, you know?”
She hesitated. “What kind of stories?”
He leaned on the rake. “Some folks say the old man—that’s Mr. Thornwick—didn’t die of natural causes. Heart failure. But everyone who knew him said he was strong as an ox. Healthy. The kind of man who could split wood with one swing and still have energy to ride horses all afternoon.”
Lyric felt a small shiver travel down her spine.
“They say he started feeling ill after the holidays one year. Slow at first. Tired. Upset stomach. Then it got worse. Real fast. And then… gone. They say he was poisoned.”
She didn’t say anything.
Walter shrugged. “Could be nothing. Could be just a story folks made up to explain a tragedy. But Clara—that’s my wife—she said a house like this doesn’t just hold secrets. It makes more of them.”
