Threads Of Fate (Being Revamped)

Shadows of Sin

"The gardens look lovely, Mr. Umbridge," Zenith said as they stepped from the marble terrace into the Duke's gardens. These were not casual lawns the result of a bored person's hobby; the estate grounds had been sculpted to impress, soothe, and overwhelm in equal measure.

To her left, ancient yew hedges rose in geometric patterns, taller than a man, their deep green walls absorbing the light and sound alike. Gravel paths threaded between them with mathematical precision, edged by borders aflame with late-summer roses, peonies, and a froth of silvery lavender. Even at the edge of the night, the air shimmered with scent—petals bruised underfoot, release of earth and flower mingling with the faint crispness of approaching evening.

Mr. Umbridge waddled ahead, his colorful coat jarring against the soft hues of the landscape. Zenith followed, arm linked with Edward's, though his grip was more obligation than affection. She could feel the tension in his knuckles, the slight tremor beneath his smooth facade.

Statues watched them from resting places among the boxwood, their marble eyes half-lidded in perpetual contemplation. A stone nymph poured water into an ornamental pond, its surface dappled with yellow lilies and the fleeting shadows of dragonflies. Farther off, a moonlit fountain sent up murmurs of water, whispering secrets that only the garden's old trees seemed to hear.

The paths twisted and doubled back, designed for privacy and strategy as much as pleasure. High above, in the boughs of ancient maples and oaks, roosting birds gave startled shivers as the trio passed below. Here, within the sheltering hedgerows, the city and its noise felt impossibly distant.

Mr. Umbridge paused beneath a wrought-iron arch woven with blooming wisteria, adjusting his spectacles. "Let us speak plainly here," he intoned, voice muffled by the thick fragrance. "No one will overhear us in the Duke's labyrinth."

"The house seems heavily guarded," Edward remarked casually, earning a quick, warning squeeze of the hand from Zenith. He shrugged her off and shoved his hands into his coat pockets. "I understand there was a crime here, but with the Duke gone... all this effort seems wasted."

Mr. Umbridge stopped mid-step and turned, his round spectacles catching a glint of lamplight. His gaze was hard.
"Lord Cavendish did warn me you were not terribly bright. I never agreed—until now."

Edward's head snapped up. "Excuse me?" The bite in his tone was unmistakable.

Zenith moved smoothly between them, brushing her fingers lightly down the curve of Edward's back—a small, practiced gesture meant to quiet him. She had used it often in another life, when they were together and his temper flared too easily. Edward was one of the sharpest men she'd ever known, but he'd once been too trusting. That safe, sheltered upbringing had left him vulnerable to the cruelty of men like Cavendish.

"Mr. Umbridge," she said warmly, her smile softening her words, "we actually wanted to speak with you about Lord Alistair's funeral."

The faintest narrowing of the advisor's eyes told her she had his attention.

"As you know," she continued, "the Duke had no known next of kin. We were wondering if we might offer our services."

Edward's agreement came in a single, flat word. "Yes." The dryness in his voice made Zenith's lips twitch, very nearly into a laugh. Sulking never did suit him—it only made him look younger than he was.

Umbridge's suspicion deepened. "Duke Cavendish did nothing but torment Viscount Edward and Lady Anya. Why in heaven's name would you offer your aid?"

"Because—" Zenith measured her tone carefully, willing her expression to stay serene despite the bitter taste the words left—
"—in the end, Duke Cavendish was still the man who provided Anya with a comfortable, even lavish life. That is... what matters most, is it not?"