Chapter 3: Blood on the Magnolia Tree

2.

Taking advantage of the maids at the gate changing shifts, I dashed out at once.

My bare feet slapped against the flagstones, skirts bunched in my fists. The late afternoon sun was dipping low, painting the yard in long golden bars of light. I kept low, darting behind the old oak, knowing exactly where the grass grew thin and the garden wall had its first crack.

I knew the fastest, least crowded way out of the estate, and where the complaint bell stood.

The complaint bell was an old relic, hung crooked from a wooden frame near the servants’ entrance. They said it once called the militia to arms, but these days, it summoned only trouble.

The maid behind me shouted and chased after me, but I never looked back, running straight for the tree by the wall that could be climbed.

Just a little further.

I’d already reached the tree trunk, about to climb up, when I froze.

Not far away, two young servants approached, faces full of fear, each holding an old wooden plank.

The things on the planks were covered by white cloth, but it was exactly that white cloth that couldn’t conceal the blood seeping through.

On one cloth, the blood was especially vivid, and the size of what lay beneath was all wrong.

Before I could get closer, the maid who’d caught up grabbed my hair and slapped me hard—twice.

Her palm stung, the blows echoing off the barn wall. I tasted copper, bit down on my own tongue to keep from screaming.

“You little brat, how dare you run in front of me?”

Turning my head, the maid also saw what the two servants carried and cried out:

“What’s that?!”

As she spoke, a gust of wind swept by, lifting the white cloth.

When I saw what was underneath, darkness swept before my eyes.

I’d seen death before, but nothing like this—the bodies were barely recognizable, torn and broken, blood soaking through the linen like spilled jam on Sunday white.

“Ah! What the hell is that?!”

The maid screamed in terror, but I lunged forward and bit her arm, hard.

Why scream?

Those are my father and mother.

The taste of her skin was sharp, bitter with fear and old soap. I clamped down until I felt blood well between my teeth.

By the time my uncle and his people arrived, I’d already bitten a chunk out of the maid’s arm.

My mouth was smeared red, but I didn’t care. My grief was a living thing, snarling inside me.

“Reporting to Mr. Smith, it was an unfamiliar adult who delivered them, and left a message for you.”

Uncle’s face was dark the whole time, and hearing this, his brow furrowed even tighter:

“What did he say?”

The servant stammered:

“He said, let Mr. Smith take care of himself.”

Uncle sneered.

“Good. Very good. Now they’re desperate to cut ties? If this ever comes to light, none of them will escape.”

He flung his coat and left, clearly not intending to bother with me. But my aunt gave me a deep, lingering look before she too turned away.

The old housekeeper beside her understood and immediately dragged me off.

His hands were rough, nails rimmed with dirt. I let him haul me through the hallways, my feet trailing streaks of blood across the faded runner. Every portrait on the wall seemed to glare at me, silent witnesses to the family’s ruin.

Covered in blood, I still couldn’t believe what I’d seen.

Impossible. How could it be so fast?

Even if someone was pushing things along in secret, it couldn’t be this fast—absolutely not…