Chapter 6 Shattered Reflection
# Chapter 6: Shattered Reflection
Smoke billowed through the upper corridors as I raced after Gideon, ignoring his command to stay behind. The acrid scent brought a strange sense of déjà vu—a memory just beyond reach, like a word on the tip of my tongue.
"The east wing!" someone shouted. "It's spreading fast!"
Servants rushed past with buckets of water while Theodore directed the efforts from the landing. When he spotted me, his expression hardened.
"Get her out of here," he ordered Gideon. "Now!"
But Gideon was already moving toward the source of the flames, his face set with grim determination. "Where's Jasper?" he demanded.
"Still in his room," Malcolm called, coughing through the thickening smoke. "Ezekiel went after him."
Without thinking, I followed Gideon toward the east wing, where Jasper's quarters were located. The heat intensified with each step, flames licking at the wallpaper, consuming generations of Marlowe history. As we rounded the corner, we found Ezekiel dragging a semiconscious Jasper from his room.
"He was trying to save this," Ezekiel shouted over the roar of the fire, indicating a leather-bound journal clutched in Jasper's hand. "Nearly got himself killed!"
Together, Gideon and Ezekiel supported Jasper between them while I led the way back toward the stairs. The smoke was disorienting, burning my eyes and throat. Just as we reached the landing, a beam crashed down behind us, sending sparks flying.
"Go!" Gideon commanded, pushing me ahead.
Outside, the night air was blessedly cool against my smoke-heated skin. The brothers had assembled on the lawn, watching in horror as flames consumed the east wing of their ancestral home. Cyrus was organizing the servants into a bucket brigade while Theodore counted heads, ensuring everyone had escaped.
"Is everyone accounted for?" Gideon asked, easing Jasper onto a blanket someone had spread on the grass.
"All present," Theodore confirmed grimly. "No thanks to Mrs. Marlowe's recklessness."
"She helped us get Jasper out," Ezekiel interjected, surprising me with his defense.
Jasper stirred, his eyes finding mine through the chaos. "The journal," he rasped, pushing it toward me with trembling hands. "She needs to know—"
"Not now, Jasper," Theodore cut in sharply.
But Jasper's grip on my wrist was surprisingly strong. "Lydia's diary," he insisted. "The truth—"
Theodore moved to intervene, but Gideon stepped between us. "Enough, Theodore. The time for secrets is past."
Their standoff was interrupted by the arrival of the local fire brigade. In the ensuing commotion, I slipped away with the journal clutched to my chest, finding sanctuary in the small gazebo at the edge of the garden.
With shaking hands, I opened the worn leather cover. The first page bore a single name in girlish handwriting: "Lydia Marlowe." My heart hammered against my ribs as I turned to the first entry.
*September 15, 1876*
*Father has finally agreed to let me keep a diary. He says a proper young lady should record her thoughts and impressions. Isolde wants one too, of course—she copies everything I do. But Father says she's too young at five. I've promised to share mine with her until she's old enough for her own.*
I nearly dropped the journal. Lydia Marlowe had written about me—about us—as sisters. The room seemed to spin as I forced myself to continue reading.
*October 3, 1876*
*Isolde had another nightmare last night. She climbed into my bed crying about fire and monsters. Mother says she'll outgrow these terrors, but I worry. Ever since the incident at the summer cottage, she's been different—more frightened. I promised I would always protect her. No matter what, we'll always be together.*
Entry after entry chronicled our childhood—a childhood I had no memory of. Lydia described our games, our lessons, our secret hiding places throughout Thornfield Manor. According to her words, I had lived here, in this house, as a Marlowe.
With growing disbelief, I read about our relationship with the brothers—Cyrus teaching us piano, Theodore scolding us for climbing trees, Malcolm telling us bedtime stories. Most pages mentioned Gideon, always watching over us, particularly me—the younger, more fragile sister.
*July 14, 1880*
*I caught Gideon watching Isolde again today as she practiced piano. He thinks no one notices, but I see how his expression changes when she enters a room. He's only sixteen, but I recognize that look—it's how Father looks at Mother. I teased him about it, and he made me promise never to tell. "She's just a child," he said. But someday she won't be.*
My hands trembled as I turned to the final entries. The handwriting had grown more hurried, more desperate.
*April 2, 1882*
*Father's behavior grows more erratic. He locks himself in his study for days, emerging only to argue with Theodore about the family business. Something is terribly wrong. The servants whisper about debts and ruin. Gideon has returned from university early—I overheard him telling Theodore that Father has made dangerous enemies. I'm trying to shield Isolde from all this, but she senses the tension.*
*April 10, 1882*
*They came tonight. Men in black coats, pounding at the doors. Father ordered us to hide in the secret passages. Isolde was so frightened. I held her hand and promised everything would be all right. Gideon found us there, insisted on moving us to the attic room where no one would look. "Whatever happens," he told me, "protect her." I don't understand what's happening, but the fear in his eyes terrifies me.*
The final entry was dated April 11, 1882—twenty years ago.
*I hear them searching the house. Father is shouting. Someone is coming up the stairs. I've locked the door, but it won't hold for long. Isolde is hiding in the wardrobe. If they find us—*
The entry ended abruptly. The remaining pages were blank.
"I see you've found your answers." Gideon's voice startled me. He stood at the gazebo entrance, his clothes still smelling of smoke, his expression unreadable.
"Is it true?" I whispered, holding up the journal. "Was I... am I a Marlowe?"
He moved to sit beside me, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from his body. "Yes," he said simply. "You are Isolde Marlowe, daughter of Edward and Catherine Marlowe. My... sister."
The word hung between us like a physical presence.
"But that's impossible," I protested. "I grew up in St. Catherine's Orphanage. I have no memory of this place, of Lydia, of any of you."
"You were only ten when it happened," Gideon said softly. "The trauma... the doctors said your mind protected itself by forgetting."
"What happened that night?" I demanded. "The night of the fire?"
Gideon's eyes closed briefly, as if the memory caused him physical pain. "Our father had made enemies—powerful men he'd crossed in business dealings. They came for retribution. They set fire to the east wing, where the family quarters were located."
"The same wing that's burning now," I realized with a chill.
He nodded grimly. "Lydia had hidden you in the attic room. When the fire spread, she... she couldn't get you both out." His voice broke. "She went back for you after getting herself to safety. The roof collapsed before she could reach you."
"But I survived," I whispered.
"Theodore found you, unconscious from the smoke, protected in the wardrobe where Lydia had hidden you. You were badly injured, delirious with fever for weeks. When you finally woke, you remembered nothing—not the fire, not Lydia, not us."
"Why didn't you tell me who I was? Why the pretense of marriage?"
Gideon's expression was tortured. "The men who destroyed our family were never caught. After the fire, for your protection, we placed you at St. Catherine's under your mother's maiden name, Winters. We intended to reclaim you once the danger passed, but your memory loss complicated matters."
He took my hands in his, his touch sending unwelcome warmth through my veins. "When I found you again after all these years, you had no idea who I was. The doctors advised against forcing the memories back—said it could cause irreparable damage to your mind."
"So you married me instead?" I pulled my hands away, anger rising through my confusion. "Your own sister?"
"In name only," he insisted. "It was the only way I could think of to bring you home without raising suspicions. The men who destroyed our family—they're still out there, still powerful. If they knew Edward Marlowe's youngest daughter had survived..."
My head spun with revelations. "The portrait in the dining room—"
"You and Lydia were painted out after the fire," he confirmed. "Part of the deception to protect you."
A terrible thought struck me. "Your feelings for me... in the library before the fire, you were about to say—"
Gideon's expression shifted, something raw and conflicted crossing his features. "You read Lydia's diary. You know I've watched over you since we were children."
"As a brother," I insisted, needing to hear him confirm it.
But his silence and the intensity of his gaze told a different story.
"That's why Theodore keeps warning you away," I realized, pieces falling into horrible place. "Why Ezekiel made those comments about history repeating itself."
"What I felt for you as a boy was innocent admiration," Gideon said carefully. "What grew later... I've fought against it every day since you returned."
I stood abruptly, needing distance between us. "This is madness. I don't remember being Isolde Marlowe. I don't remember you, or Lydia, or any of it!"
"Perhaps this will help." Cyrus's voice came from the gazebo entrance. He held a portfolio under his arm, his expression solemn. "I should have shown you this days ago, but Theodore insisted we wait for Gideon's return."
He placed the portfolio on the bench between us and opened it to reveal a portrait—a girl of perhaps sixteen, with my face, my eyes, but hair arranged differently and clothes from another era. The resemblance was uncanny, like looking into a mirror that reflected a slightly altered version of myself.
"I painted this the summer before the fire," Cyrus explained softly. "Lydia sat for me every afternoon for a month."
My fingers traced the painted face, a strange sense of recognition stirring within me. "We were twins?"
"Not quite," Cyrus replied. "You were born eleven months apart, but the resemblance was always remarkable. Your mother used to dress you identically to confuse guests."
As I stared at Lydia's portrait, something shifted in my mind—like a key turning in a long-rusted lock. A fragment of memory: a girl's laughter, a hand holding mine, running through tall grass.
"The music box," I whispered. "Phineas said the key to everything was in the music box."
Gideon and Cyrus exchanged a look. "The music box was a gift from your mother," Gideon explained. "It contains—"
A shout from the main house interrupted him. Theodore was striding across the lawn toward us, his expression thunderous.
"The fire is contained," he announced as he reached us. "But this isn't over. Someone set it deliberately—in the same location as twenty years ago."
"A warning," Gideon said grimly.
"Or a message," Theodore countered, his gaze moving to the diary in my lap and Lydia's portrait. "I see you've decided to ignore my counsel entirely."
"She deserved the truth," Gideon replied firmly.
"And now that I know," I interjected, rising to face Theodore, "I want the music box. Phineas said it contains the key to everything."
Theodore's expression hardened. "The music box was destroyed in tonight's fire."
But something in his eyes told me he was lying. As the brothers argued about next steps and increased security, I clutched Lydia's diary to my chest, my mind reeling with revelations. I was Isolde Marlowe, not Isolde Winters. I had a family, a history, a place in this house that had nothing to do with my marriage to Gideon.
And Gideon—my brother in blood but something else entirely in his heart—had brought me home under false pretenses, caught between duty to family and feelings he shouldn't possess.
As dawn broke over the smoldering east wing of Thornfield Manor, I faced a shattering truth: the life I thought was mine had never existed, and the man I had begun to care for was forbidden to me by the very blood we shared.
