Chapter 3 The Ledger of Blood

The carriage door closed with a heavy, final thud, sealing me into a world of velvet, polished mahogany, and the overwhelming presence of the man who now owned my future.

As the wheels began to grind against the gravel, the Ashford manor, the only home this body had ever known shrank into the distance. I did not look back. I did not have the luxury of nostalgia. I was too busy trying to regulate my breathing. The corset was a physical manifestation of my new life: beautiful, restrictive, and designed to keep me from taking a full breath.

Duke Alaric sat across from me, his long legs taking up most of the cabin's floor space. He did not speak. He pulled a sheaf of documents from a leather portfolio and began to read by the flickering light of a carriage lantern; his brow furrowed in a permanent line of calculation.

I shifted my weight, my skirts rustling. My foot brushed against something hard and uneven beneath the velvet draped seat.

Clink.

It was the sound of metal on wood. I froze, glancing at Alaric. He did not look up from his papers, but the rhythmic scratching of his quill paused for a fraction of a second. He was listening.

I reached down, pretending to adjust the heavy hem of my gown. My fingers met a cold, brass latch hidden in the shadows of the floorboards. With a sharp tug, a small, secret compartment clicked open. Inside sat a book. It was not bound in the fine calfskin of the Duke's portfolio; it was wrapped in stained, battered leather that felt oily to the touch.

I slid it out, keeping it hidden within the folds of my skirt. When I opened the first page, the breath died in my throat.

It was not a diary. It was a ledger. And the ink was not black, it was a dark, rusted brown that looked suspiciously like dried blood.

The handwriting was erratic, a frantic scrawl that contrasted sharply with the elegant calligraphy of the court.

September 12th: The Count's third payment missed. Interest compounded. The girl is the only collateral left.

October 3rd: Vane suggests the 'accident' in the stables. The Ashford line is weak; it is better to prune it.

My eyes scanned down the list. My father's name appeared over and over, always followed by numbers that made my head swim. But it was the final entry, dated only a week ago, that turned my blood to ice.

The Duke of Ravenshollow has accepted the trade. He does not want the girl for the name; he wants her for the key. If she dies before the wedding, the key is lost. If she lives, she must never know what her father buried beneath the chapel.

"You are very quiet, Lady Elowen."

The Duke's voice was like a whipcrack in the small space. I slammed the book shut under my skirt, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I looked up, meeting those stormy grey eyes. He had set his papers aside. He was watching me with an intensity that made me feel like I was being dissected.

"I am merely reflecting on the speed of my departure, Your Grace," I said, my voice only trembling slightly. "It is quite a change for a girl who rarely left the gardens."

Alaric leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. He moved with a predatory grace that suggested he could close the distance between us in a heartbeat. "You lie as poorly as your father, but with much more conviction. You were not 'reflecting.' You look like you had seen a ghost."

"Perhaps I am haunted," I replied, leaning back into the shadows. "This carriage is full of them."

He let out a short, dry laugh. "If you think this carriage is haunted, wait until you see Ravenshollow. My home is built on the bones of men who thought they were smarter than me. I hope you are not planning to join them."

I realized then that Alaric was not a saviour; he was a collector. He had not rescued me from the Ashfords out of a sense of justice or pity; he had simply outbid the competition for a more lucrative asset. To him, I was not a bride; I was a 'key.' The word tasted like cold iron in my mouth. Was it a literal object hidden somewhere in my luggage, or was Elowen herself a metaphorical instrument designed to unlock a door he could not kick down? Either way, I was a tool, and tools were only kept as long as they remained sharp.

I thought about the man I used to be. One who had navigated the politics of the docks and the warehouses. Information was the only currency that did not devalue. If I had this ledger, I had leverage.

"I have no desire to be a ghost, Your Grace," I said, my voice steadying. "I've spent enough of my life being invisible. I find that I rather enjoy being seen even if the view is from a cage."

Alaric's gaze dropped to the hem of my skirt, where the corner of the bloodstained ledger was peeking out from the silk. My heart stopped. He knew.

He reached out, but he did not grab the book. Instead, he took my hand. His glove was rough against my skin, but his grip was surprisingly gentle.

"The Ashford family is a rot, Elowen," he said, his voice low. "They sold you to save themselves, but they did not tell you the price they really paid. If you want to survive Ravenshollow, you need to decide whose side you are on. Because by the time we reach the border, 'invisible' will no longer be an option."

He let go of my hand and went back to his papers, leaving me shivering in the heat of the carriage.

I looked out the window. The sun was setting, casting long, skeletal shadows across the road. We were heading into the northern wilds, away from everything I knew. I had a dead girl's body, a man who viewed me as a strategic asset, and a ledger that proved my family had tried to kill me.

The key, I thought, my fingers tightening on the hidden book. Whatever it is, I'm going to find it first. And when I do, I'm going to make sure no one ever tries to sell me again.

As the carriage stops at a dark wayside inn for the night, Elowen discovers that the 'key' mentioned in the ledger is not a hidden treasure, it is a mark branded onto her own skin, hidden where she can not see it.