Chapter 4:Black Veil& Cold Eyes

Evelyn pov

My father’s coffin was mahogany, polished so bright I could see my own bloated, tear-stained face in the wood. Beside it sat my mother’s, smaller only because they had to squeeze her into what remained of the family budget.

I was three years old, sitting on a high velvet bench with my black patent-leather shoes dangling inches above the hardwood floor. My knees were scraped from falling in the driveway earlier that morning, but nobody had bandaged them. No one had time. The chapel smelled like dying lilies, damp wool, and the heavy, metallic tang of rain trapped inside cheap coats.

"Look at her," Aunt Beatrice whispered, her voice like dry leaves scraping across pavement. She wasn't talking to comfort me; she was talking over my head to Uncle Julian. "Not a tear since the eulogy ended. Cold. Just like her mother."

"She’s three, Beatrice," Julian muttered, though his eyes weren't on me. They were fixed on the polished mahogany. "She doesn't understand what 'dead' means yet. She thinks they're coming back after the reception."

I understood. I understood that my mother’s hands were usually warm and smelled like vanilla flour, but when I touched them in the open casket three hours ago, they felt like the frozen chicken breasts she used to thaw in the sink. I understood that my father’s booming laugh, the one that used to make the living room rafters shake during Sunday football, was never going to wake me up again.

I didn't cry because my throat felt like it had swallowed broken glass. If I opened my mouth, I was afraid I would bleed out.

The mourners drifted past us like black-robed ghosts, their eyes brief, heavy lamps of pity before they turned toward the real event of the afternoon.

"She can't stay at the manor alone, obviously," Cousin Ronald said, leaning against the altar rail. He wasn't even pretending to lower his voice. He fingered the silk lining of his overcoat, his eyes darting toward the heavy brass doors where the family lawyer, Mr. Vance, stood holding a weathered leather briefcase. "The upkeep alone is four grand a month. Who’s going to cover that? The estate?"

"The estate is locked until probate clears," Beatrice snapped, her thin lips pressing into a pale line. She reached down and gripped my small wrist, her fingernails digging slightly into my soft skin. It wasn't an embrace; it was a hold. Like a farmer holding a chicken by the wing at a market. "And we all know Arthur didn't leave a proper liquid balance. Everything was tied up in the east timberlands and those old townhouses on Fifth."

"The townhouses were sold last autumn," Julian chimed in, stepping closer. His eyes locked onto the black leather briefcase across the room. "Arthur told me himself. He liquidated them to fund the new orchard venture."

"He didn't," Beatrice breathed, her grip on my wrist tightening so hard I winced, though I kept my mouth shut. "He wouldn't be that foolish. Those townhouses belonged to Grandfather."

"Ask Vance," Julian said grimly. "Why do you think the old snake has been standing by the door for forty-five minutes? He isn't here to mourn. He’s here to see who claims guardianship before the bank executes the liens."

I looked down at my shoes. A drop of water fell onto the shiny black leather, smudging my reflection. I wiped it away with the hem of my scratchy black dress. I wanted my blanket. The yellow one with the faded ducklings that my mother kept on the rocking chair by the bay window. But Uncle Julian had locked the manor doors this morning before the hearse arrived, keying the heavy deadbolts himself and slipping the brass ring into his coat pocket.

"I'll take her," Beatrice said suddenly.

Julian let out a sharp, ugly laugh that made a few distant mourners turn their heads. "You? Since when do you care about an orphan, Beatrice? You couldn't even stand her when Sarah brought her to Thanksgiving."

"I care about family continuity," she said coldly, pulling me closer against her stiff wool skirt. The fabric rubbed uncomfortably against my cheek. "And as her nearest female relative, I have the legal precedent to act as trustee until she turns eighteen."

"Trustee," Julian repeated, his voice dropping into a dangerous whisper. "You mean executor of the land deeds. Don't play saint with me. You want the timberland logging rights."

"And you want the manor to tear it down for luxury condos!" Beatrice hissed, stepping right up into his face.

They forgot I was there. They always forgot. To them, three-year-olds were deaf and blind, temporary furniture that couldn't understand the words trustee, probate, or liens. But I understood the heat in their voices. I knew the look in Uncle Julian's eyes—it was the same look the stray dogs in the alley gave a bone before they snapped at each other's throats.

Nobody had asked if I was hungry. Nobody had wiped the mud off my shoes.

Across the aisle, Mr. Vance clicked open his briefcase. The sharp snap of the metal clasps sounded like a gunshot in the vaulted room.

Julian broke away from Beatrice instantly, taking long, aggressive strides toward the lawyer. Beatrice swore under her breath—a dark, filthy word my mother never allowed in the house—and dragged me along behind her, my little legs scrambling to keep up on the slick marble aisle.

"Vance," Julian demanded, cutting off an elderly aunt who was trying to offer her condolences. "We need to discuss the temporary custodian arrangement for the physical properties before the reading tomorrow."

Mr. Vance adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses, looking down his thin nose at Julian, then at Beatrice, and finally down at me. His expression didn't change. It was gray, like old newsprint.

"The properties are subject to the testament of Arthur and Sarah Vance, Mr. Croft," the lawyer said, his voice dry as dust. "As for the child, the temporary custody mandate was pre-arranged three months ago."

Beatrice froze. Her fingers twitched against my shoulder. "Pre-arranged? What are you talking about? Arthur was perfectly healthy three months ago."

"Your brother was many things, Mrs. Vance, but he was not unprepared," Vance replied smoothly. He pulled a thick paper document bound in blue cardstock from his briefcase. "He anticipated... complications. Should both he and Sarah pass prematurely, guardianship of Evelyn—and full control of the Croft estate deeds—was assigned to a singular named party."

"Who?" Julian snapped, stepping into Vance's space. "I'm his brother! Beatrice is his sister! There is no one else!"

Mr. Vance didn't flinch. He slowly flipped to the final page of the document, his thumb running down a line of crisp black ink.

"The designated guardian," Vance read, "and sole custodian of all real estate holdings until the child's majority, is Mr. Silas Vance."

The chapel went dead silent. Even the distant rain outside seemed to pause.

Beatrice took a step back, her hand falling away from my shoulder completely, leaving me standing alone in the cold air. "Silas? No. That's a mistake. Silas was disowned five years ago. Arthur hated him!"

"Arthur signed this in my office on June twelfth," Vance said, holding up the page. "Witnessed and notarized."

"He's a criminal!" Julian shouted, his face flushing a deep, mottled red. "You can't hand a three-year-old child and a multi-million-dollar estate over to a man who just finished serving—"

The heavy oak doors at the back of the chapel slammed open.

A draft of freezing rain rushed down the center aisle, snuffing out half the candles on the altar. The footsteps that followed were slow, heavy, and echoed off the stone walls like iron boots.

Every head in the chapel turned.

A tall man stood in the threshold, drenched in rain, wearing a tailored dark coat that looked far too expensive for someone who had disappeared off the map half a decade ago. His hair was black, plastered to his forehead, but it was his eyes that locked everyone in place—cold, pale gray, devoid of any warmth or grief.

He didn't look at Julian. He didn't look at Beatrice.

His eyes swept directly down the aisle and landed on me.

"Step away from my ward," Silas said. His voice was low, carrying a dark, quiet authority that made Uncle Julian instantly take a half-step back.

He walked toward us, stopping right in front of me. He knelt on one knee, ignoring the water pooling on the pristine church runner from his coat. Up close, he smelled like rain, leather, and faint tobacco smoke.

He reached into his pocket. Cousin Ronald gasped behind me, and Julian reached toward his coat, but Silas didn't pull a weapon.

He pulled out a faded yellow blanket with worn ducklings embroidered on the edge. My blanket.

He offered it to me. "Your father told me you couldn't sleep without it," he said softly, though his eyes remained as cold as frost on glass. "Ready to leave, Evelyn?"

Before I could reach for the blanket, Uncle Julian lunged forward, grabbing Silas by the shoulder. "You aren't taking her anywhere, Silas! That will is a fraud, and I'll have you back behind bars before—"

Silas didn't even look up at him. With frightening speed, he grabbed Julian’s wrist, twisting it back until a sharp crack echoed through the silent chapel, followed by Julian's agonizing scream as he dropped to his knees.

Silas leaned close to Julian's ear, his voice barely a whisper, yet loud enough for me to hear every word.

"Try to touch her again," Silas purred, "and I won't just take the estate. I'll bury you next to my brother."