Chapter 5 Scarlet Threads

# Chapter 5: Scarlet Threads

The following days passed in a haze of tension. Alistair remained confined to bed, his injuries—a concussion and several broken ribs—requiring complete rest. Theodore had forbidden me from visiting him, his suspicion palpable whenever our paths crossed. The other brothers watched me with renewed wariness, as if I had somehow orchestrated the attack myself.

Only Cyrus maintained a semblance of normalcy, inviting me to the music room for lessons that provided brief respite from the oppressive atmosphere. During these sessions, I tried repeatedly to ask about Lydia, but he deflected with practiced ease.

"Focus on the music, Isolde," he would say, guiding my fingers back to the keys. "Some melodies are better left unfinished."

A week after the break-in, I finally managed to visit Alistair. His room was dim, curtains drawn against the afternoon sun. He looked paler than usual, dark circles beneath his eyes contrasting sharply with the white bandage around his head.

"You shouldn't be here," he whispered when he saw me. "Theodore will be furious."

"Theodore is in town for the afternoon," I replied, taking a seat beside his bed. "What happened that night, Alistair? Who attacked you?"

He glanced nervously at the door. "I don't remember. I was struck from behind."

His eyes told a different story. "You were going to the cottage," I pressed. "To show me what's under the floorboard."

"Forget the cottage," he said with sudden vehemence. "Forget all of it, Isolde. For your own safety."

"I can't," I admitted. "Not when it seems to be connected to who I am."

Alistair closed his eyes briefly. When he reopened them, his resolve seemed to have weakened. "The key I gave you," he said quietly. "It opens—"

The door swung open, revealing Theodore's imposing figure. "I thought I made myself clear," he said coldly.

"I was just leaving," I replied, rising from my chair.

Theodore's hand on my arm stopped me. "A moment of your time, Mrs. Marlowe."

He led me to his study, closing the door with deliberate care. "Your curiosity is becoming dangerous," he said without preamble. "Not just for yourself, but for others."

"I didn't ask Alistair to go to the cottage that night," I defended myself.

"No, but you've been asking questions—stirring up matters better left settled." His expression softened marginally. "I understand your confusion, but there are aspects of this family's history that are... painful."

"Then help me understand," I pleaded. "Everyone in this house looks at me as if I'm a ghost. I found a photograph from St. Catherine's with a girl who could be my twin."

Theodore's composure slipped momentarily. "What photograph?"

"Someone left it at my door the night Gideon departed. A girl named Lydia—"

"Enough!" Theodore's fist came down hard on his desk. "That name is not to be spoken in this house!"

The vehemence of his reaction startled me into silence. Theodore took several deep breaths, visibly struggling to regain control.

"I apologize for my outburst," he said finally. "But I must insist you cease this investigation. When Gideon returns—"

"Will he tell me the truth?" I challenged. "Or will he continue to keep me in the dark about why he really married me?"

Theodore studied me for a long moment. "My brother's motives are his own to reveal. But know this: his protection is the only thing keeping you safe right now."

"Safe from what?"

"From the past," he replied cryptically. "And from those who would use you to reopen old wounds."

That evening at dinner, an uncomfortable silence pervaded the table. Jasper, who had been absent from meals since my arrival, had unexpectedly joined us. His gaze darted to me repeatedly, his hands shaking as he attempted to manage his silverware.

"Are you feeling well, Jasper?" Malcolm asked with gentle concern.

Jasper nodded jerkily. "Good days and... bad days," he mumbled. "Today is... better."

As the meal progressed, I noticed his agitation increasing. His eyes rarely left my face, and his breathing became more labored. When dessert was served, he suddenly dropped his spoon with a clatter.

"It wasn't my fault," he blurted, eyes wild. "I tried to save her from the flames, but the door was locked—she was screaming for help—"

"Jasper," Theodore warned sharply.

But Jasper was beyond hearing, lost in whatever nightmare had claimed him. He lunged across the table toward me, sending glasses toppling. "Why did you come back, Lydia? To torment us? To remind us of what we did?"

Ezekiel and Cyrus moved quickly, restraining their brother as he thrashed. "Get Mrs. Marlowe out of here," Theodore commanded Malcolm, who immediately came to my side.

"I'll escort you upstairs," he said gently, supporting my elbow as we left the chaos of the dining room.

In the hallway, I could still hear Jasper's anguished cries. "What flames was he talking about?" I asked Malcolm once we were out of earshot.

Malcolm's kindly face creased with sorrow. "Jasper's mind is... fragile. He blames himself for something that wasn't his fault."

"Something to do with Lydia?"

He hesitated, conflict evident in his expression. "There was a fire, many years ago," he finally admitted. "It... changed this family forever."

"And Lydia died in it," I concluded, the pieces finally starting to align.

Malcolm nodded reluctantly. "I shouldn't say more. Theodore—"

"Theodore isn't here," I pointed out. "Please, Malcolm. I need to understand."

His resistance crumbled. "The music box in the attic—it was hers. None of us have been able to open it since that night."

The key Alistair had given me suddenly felt heavy in my pocket. "Thank you for telling me," I said softly.

After Malcolm left, I waited until the house quieted before slipping into the hidden passages I'd discovered during my explorations. These narrow corridors, built into the walls of the old manor, allowed me to move unseen between certain rooms. Tonight, they would take me to the attic.

The forbidden room was exactly as I'd left it, moonlight streaming through the round window to illuminate the dusty furnishings. With trembling hands, I withdrew Alistair's key and approached the music box. The key slid perfectly into the tiny lock, turning with a soft click.

Inside lay a child's treasures—a pressed flower, a ribbon, a small porcelain doll—and beneath them, a tarnished silver bracelet. As I lifted it, my heart stuttered. Despite the charred edges and blackened silver, I could make out tiny engraved initials: "I.W."

Isolde Winters.

My maiden name.

A noise behind me made me whirl around, the bracelet clutched in my fist. Nothing—just the settling of the old house. Still, a sense of urgency propelled me back toward the hidden passage. I had just reached the panel when another sound stopped me—footsteps on the attic stairs.

I slipped into the passage just as the door opened, pulling the panel shut behind me. Through a small gap, I could see Theodore enter, lantern in hand. He moved directly to the music box, discovered it open, and cursed under his breath.

"She's been here," he said to someone behind him.

Ezekiel stepped into view. "What was she looking for?"

"Evidence," Theodore replied grimly. "She's getting too close."

"Perhaps it's time to tell her," Ezekiel suggested. "Before she discovers it on her own."

"That's Gideon's decision."

"Gideon," Ezekiel scoffed. "He's too blinded by guilt—and other feelings—to think clearly where she's concerned."

"Other feelings?" Theodore raised an eyebrow.

"Don't tell me you haven't noticed the way he looks at her," Ezekiel said with a bitter laugh. "History repeating itself—though this time, I doubt he'll be content to watch from the sidelines."

Their conversation faded as I moved deeper into the passage, my mind reeling. The bracelet in my hand—my bracelet—proved I had some connection to this house, to the mysterious Lydia, beyond my marriage to Gideon. But what? And how did it relate to the fire Jasper had mentioned?

I emerged from the passage near the library, intending to return to my room. As I turned the corner, I collided with a solid chest. Strong hands steadied me, and I looked up into Gideon's storm-gray eyes.

"Isolde," he said, his voice rough with surprise. "What are you doing wandering the halls at this hour?"

"Gideon," I breathed, relief and apprehension washing over me in equal measure. "You're back."

"I returned early," he said, his gaze moving over me as if checking for injuries. "Theodore sent word about the break-in and Alistair's attack."

His proximity after two weeks apart was overwhelming. Despite my questions, despite my suspicions, my traitorous heart leapt at the sight of him. He must have read something in my expression, for his hands tightened slightly on my arms.

"Are you all right?" he asked, genuine concern in his voice. "Has something happened?"

The bracelet burned in my palm. I should confront him, demand answers about my connection to his family. Instead, I found myself saying, "I couldn't sleep. The house feels... different at night."

"You should be in your room," he said, but made no move to release me. His eyes dropped to my lips briefly before returning to my eyes. "It's not safe to wander alone."

"So everyone keeps telling me," I replied. "Though no one will say what exactly I need protection from."

Something shifted in his expression—a decision made. "Come," he said, guiding me toward the library. "It's time we talked."

The library fire had burned low, casting the room in amber shadows. Gideon poured two glasses of brandy, handing one to me before taking a seat opposite, close enough that our knees nearly touched.

"I owe you an explanation," he began, his voice low. "About why I brought you here."

My heart pounded as I waited for the truth I'd sought since arriving at Thornfield.

"You and this family," he continued carefully, "have a... connection. One that goes back many years."

"Because of Lydia?" I asked directly.

His expression darkened at the name. "Who told you about her?"

"No one had to tell me," I replied, drawing the photograph from my pocket. "Someone wanted me to know."

Gideon took the photograph, his face paling as he studied it. "Where did you get this?"

"It was left at my door the night you departed for London." I hesitated, then opened my palm to reveal the charred bracelet. "And I found this tonight."

For a moment, he looked utterly stricken. Then, something seemed to break within him. He set down his glass and leaned forward, taking my hands in his.

"Isolde," he said, his voice raw with emotion I'd never heard from him before. "What I'm about to tell you will change everything between us. Before I do, I need you to know that whatever my initial reasons for bringing you here, what I feel for you now is—"

A crash from upstairs interrupted him. We both jumped to our feet as Theodore's voice bellowed from above: "Fire! Everyone out!"

Gideon's face drained of color. "Stay here," he ordered, already moving toward the door.

But as the smell of smoke reached us and shouts echoed through the house, I knew I couldn't remain behind. Whatever secrets this family kept about fire and death, history seemed determined to repeat itself—and I was somehow at the center of it all.