Chapter 4

"If you think our memories are a burden," Alistair thundered, "then let's burn them all!"

He spun on the head butler. "Go to the gallery! Drag out every portrait of Seraphina and burn them! I don't want a single one left!"

"Father!" Damian ran toward them, his eyes blazing with anger. "If Mother doesn't care about this family, then neither do I! I'm giving up my inheritance and joining the Expeditionary Force!"

The Expeditionary Force.

That was a place for poor boys to die on some forgotten battlefield.

I had once dreamed he would learn his courtly duties and serve in the royal palace.

Now, I just stared at him coldly.

"Do as you wish."

Damian was stunned into silence. He never expected such indifference.

"Mother..."

"Get out."

Several guards entered and "escorted" me to the North Tower.

It was desolate. Freezing. There was no fire in the hearth.

They even cut back my food.

Every day, just a small piece of bread and a cup of cold water.

The pain in my lungs made me cough constantly, but the tower was too far from the main house for anyone to hear.

Three days later, Damian came.

I fought back the pain, forcing myself to sit upright.

"Mother, why do you look so pale?" he asked with a frown. "You can end this little pity party now. Apologize to Father. I'm sure he'll forgive you."

Pity party?

I snatched a pillow and threw it at him. "Get out!"

"Mother!"

"Get out!"

Terrified by my reaction, Damian fled.

Two more days passed before a frantic knock came at my door.

"Your Grace! It's terrible!" Amy burst in, panicked. "Miss Liana says she's being haunted by a restless spirit! She's called in a wandering seer!"

My heart stopped.

"The seer..." Amy's voice trembled. "She says it's the spirit of the child you miscarried! She says the only way to break the curse is to burn the memorial tree!"

No.

Absolutely not.

I staggered to my feet and ran from the room.

The sharp pain in my lungs made me gasp for air with every step, but I couldn't stop.

That was my child's only memorial.

By the time I reached the garden, Alistair was already there.

The little white oak sapling lay on the ground, its roots still caked with dirt.

"No... you can't..." I stumbled toward it.

"Seraphina," Alistair blocked my path. "Kneel. Beg me to forgive you. And I'll spare the tree."

I stared at him, my eyes bloodshot.

"Beg me, Seraphina," he said, his voice sick with excitement. "Just like you used to. Get on your knees and beg me."

I shook my head, tears blurring my vision.

"Very well," Alistair sneered. He waved his hand. "Throw it in the fire."

"NO—!"

I watched them toss the little tree into the bonfire. I watched the flames consume my child's last memorial.

I scrambled toward the fire.

The heat licked at my skin. My fingers clawed through the embers. I searched until I found it—a charred branch, the name of my child still visible in the wood.

I clutched it to my chest.

And in that moment, I felt a strange sense of release.

I smiled.

As I stood up, I felt a familiar, metallic taste rise in my throat.

A torrent of blood erupted from my mouth. It painted my white gown crimson.

My body collapsed backward like a puppet with its strings cut.

"No... Seraphina, this isn't real." Alistair's pupils shrank to pinpricks.