Chapter 4

A few hours later, as dawn approached, Marcus Thorne returned. His face was set in its usual impassive lines.

"Miss Hayes is plagued by unsettling energies tonight," he announced, not looking at me directly. "She requires someone with a strong, grounding presence to sit with her."

His words were a thinly veiled insult, a demeaning twist on my heritage. My connection to the spiritual, now a tool for Veronica' s whims.

"The Governor requests your presence," he finished.

I was still weak, the bleeding lessened but not stopped. But Leo had not yet returned. I needed to buy time. I needed to appear compliant.

"Of course," I said, my voice carefully neutral.

Maya helped me dress. I walked slowly, deliberately, to Veronica' s suite.

She was propped up in bed, looking pale and petulant. Ethan sat beside her, holding her hand, murmuring soothing words. They both looked up as I entered.

"Ah, Elara," Ethan said, his voice cool. "Veronica hasn't been resting well. The doctor thought a familiar, calm presence might help."

Familiar. Calm. I was the spectre at their feast.

Veronica gave a weak smile. "Thank you for coming, Elara. It' s just... the shadows in this old house. They press in." She shivered theatrically.

I sat in the chair Marcus indicated, across the room. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken cruelties. Ethan and Veronica whispered to each other, occasionally casting glances my way. Their words were too low for me to hear, but their meaning was clear in their shared smiles, their dismissive looks.

"Ethan, darling," Veronica said after a long while, her voice louder now, "I was reading about old folk remedies. For anxiety, for unsettling feelings."

"Oh?" Ethan replied, attentive.

"It says an offering from someone 'Spirit-Touched' can be very calming. To cleanse the space." She looked directly at me, a glint in her eye. "Elara, you have such a unique heritage. Your people understand these things."

Ethan turned to me. His expression was unreadable for a moment. Then, it hardened.

"Elara," he said, his voice carrying the weight of an order. "Veronica needs this. Provide the offering."

My heart, already a bruised and battered thing, felt another blow. He spoke of my heritage, the very thing he was trying to destroy, now as a commodity for Veronica' s comfort.

"What part of me is needed, Ethan?" I asked, my voice quiet, steady.

He hesitated, a flicker of something – shame? discomfort? – crossing his face. Then it was gone.

"A lock of your hair will suffice," he said, turning away slightly. "A small symbol."

A lock of my hair. A token. My spirit, my essence, reduced to a trinket for her peace of mind. The promises he made of protecting my people, of valuing our ways, echoed mockingly in my mind. This was the value he placed on me, on my heritage. Less than nothing.