The rhythm of the wheels no longer soothed me. I sat rigid, the hem of my cloak clenched in one hand, the other braced against the window as trees blurred past. I hadn’t even stayed for breakfast. Just a note to Aunt Eliza, left beside the half-drained ink bottle, scrawled in hurried script: “Gone to Father’s. Will return after luncheon.”

  Bartholomew’s words echoed like thunder in the hollow of my chest. Why had he told me? He could’ve kept it to himself. Could’ve let me go on, na?ve and protected. But he didn’t. He’d looked me straight in the eyes and said it pinly—like it was a courtesy. Like it was a kindness. Was it?

  I didn’t know what unsettled me more—that he’d trusted me with it, or that my father hadn’t. Father knew how I felt about the resurrection men. He knew I considered their work grim, even disturbing—but necessary. A betrayal of rest, yes, but one that paved the way for knowledge, for healing. He’d nodded at the time, silent as always, giving nothing away. And yet… all this time. He’d known. He’d been one of them. Not in name, perhaps, but in action. I wasn’t angry at the act. Not truly. If he’d told me years ago, if he’d said, “Elizabeth, this was what we had to do—what the physicians had to do,” I might’ve understood. Begrudgingly, perhaps. But I would have understood.

  But the silence? The omission? That cut deeper than any revetion. I thought I knew him. The man who taught me to ride, to read poetry, to ce my boots with precision. The man who told me stories about his youth, about this house I now called home. Had it all been curated? Selective truths, sanitized for his daughter? I pressed a hand to my chest, willing the ache to settle. It didn’t.

  And then there was Bartholomew again—his tone, the flicker of something behind his eyes when he mentioned Eliza. There was a tension there I hadn’t seen before. Not hostility, but something sharper. A wound, maybe. Or a memory. What had passed between them? And why did it feel like I was walking into the middle of a story no one had bothered to tell me?

  The trees gave way to stone walls and iron gates. The house came into view—familiar and distant all at once. My pulse quickened. I would get answers even if no one wanted to give them. I didn’t wait for the carriage to stop. Before the wheels had fully settled in the gravel drive, I was out—skirts lifted just enough to clear the step, boots striking the earth with purpose. The footman called after me, startled, but I ignored him. I didn’t need help. I didn’t need ceremony. I needed answers.

  Up the stone steps I went, two at a time, and I didn’t pause when I reached the front door. It was already beginning to open, no doubt one of the servants having caught sight of my abrupt arrival—but I pushed through before they could speak. The hallway opened before me, warm and familiar, but I didn’t stop to take it in. I knew exactly where they would be. The dining room. My boots clicked against the polished floor as I made my way down the corridor, past the portraits, past the heavy grandfather clock whose ticking I had grown up measuring time by. When I reached the double doors, I pushed them open without knocking.

  The conversation inside died instantly. Four pairs of eyes turned toward me—Father at the head of the table, Mother mid-sentence, Anthony seated rigidly across from Caroline, who held a fork suspended midair. “Elizabeth?” my mother asked, blinking as though I had stepped out of a thundercp. “Darling, what on earth—why have you come so early? We weren’t expecting—”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, cutting her off, my voice even but firm. “I don’t mean to be rude, Mama.” Then I turned my gaze to my father. “Meet me in your study.”

  The room froze. I didn’t ask. I didn’t wait for permission. I simply turned and walked out, my footsteps steady as I made my way to the opposite end of the house. I could feel their silence trailing behind me, stunned and murmuring, but I didn’t care. I had spent the entire ride here boiling, unraveling, steeling myself. I wasn’t about to lose my resolve now.

  The study door gave way under my hand. I stepped inside and closed it behind me. It was just as I remembered—dark wood, shelves heavy with books, the scent of ink and tea lingering in the air. His world. His quiet retreat. I crossed the rug and stood in the center of the room, then turned and began to pace. Three steps. Turn. Three steps back. Again.

  I didn’t know what I would say. Not exactly. But I knew the questions, and I knew the weight of the silence he had kept. And when he walked through that door, he would answer me. The door creaked open behind me. “Elizabeth,” came my father’s voice—level, but ced with irritation. “What is the meaning of this?”

  I didn’t stop pacing. I didn’t even look at him. My boots struck the rug again and again in a tight circuit. He stepped farther into the room, the door clicking shut behind him. “You barge into the dining room, unannounced, and summon me like a clerk? What’s going on?”

  I stopped and turned to face him. “I know,” I said.

  His brows pulled together. “Know what?”

  I didn’t flinch. “What you’ve been keeping from me all this time.”

  There it was—just the smallest shift in his stance. A ripple of discomfort. But he recovered quickly, folding his arms. “I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific.”

  I ughed once—cold and short. “He told me. Benedict’s father. He told me everything. I had dinner with his family st night." I said, voice rising.

  “I never approved of you—”

  “I know. That’s why I didn’t ask.” I stepped forward, furious now. “But I never asked you to lie to me.”

  “I didn’t lie.”

  “You lied by omission. For years.”

  That got him. His eyes flickered, just slightly. But his voice stayed even. “And what exactly did Benedict’s father cim to know?”

  I stepped closer. “You supplied bodies. Dug them up. Sold them to a surgeon. You were a resurrection man.”

  Father stared at me, unblinking. “And who the devil is Benedict’s father?”

  “Lord Bartholomew Collins.”

  And there it was. The change. His mouth went hard. His eyes fred. “Bartholomew,” he repeated, the name venomous in his mouth. “That bastard.” He moved behind the desk as if to steady himself, gripping the edge with both hands. “I did it, but not for the money. That was just... convenience. I did it because we were losing people. Because doctors couldn’t save what they didn’t understand. And the w made it impossible for them to learn any other way.” His voice was calmer now, but not soft. “I didn’t enjoy it. God knows I had my doubts. But I’d seen enough death to know ignorance was worse.”

  “So you did it for them?” I asked. “The patients?”

  “I did it,” he said, “so fewer families would stand over graves. So people wouldn’t keep dying because men were forbidden from learning how to save them.”

  “So instead of telling me that—that—you let me think we were somehow untouched by it all.”

  “I let you grow up,” he snapped, “without having to carry the burden of it. That was the choice I made.”

  “And now I’m carrying it anyway,” I said. “Because someone else told me. Someone you hate.” I paused. “He also said that he loved Aunt Eliza and that she broke his heart.”

  His expression turned stony. “I’m not discussing that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s not your business,” he said sharply. “What happened between them is between them. And I’ll not stand here and relive it for his satisfaction.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “So it did happen.”

  He looked away. “Bartholomew is not a kind man, Elizabeth. You think he told you all this out of care? No. He told you because he wanted to unsettle you. Because he wanted to undermine me. That’s what he does.”

  “And what about Benedict?”

  He turned back to me, expression darkening. “Now that I know who his father is—I don’t want you around him. Or any of them. Not ever again.”

  “You don’t get to decide—”

  “I do,” he said, his voice rising loud enough to shake the walls. “I’m your father—and I’m telling you, stay away from that family.”

  I stared at him, stunned. “Or else what?”

  He stepped forward, voice low, threatening. “Or else you’ll find out exactly how far I’ll go to keep this family safe from people like him.”

  I felt like he’d struck me. “All this time,” I said, voice tight. “You’ve said you trusted me.”

  “I do,” he said. “Enough to tell you to leave it alone.”

  My throat tightened before I could stop it. I turned my face away, but the tears were already rising—hot, stinging, impossible to hold back. Without another word, he turned and walked out. The door clicked shut behind him. And then the tears came in earnest.

  I stood there, trembling, one hand gripping the edge of his desk like I might fall through the floor. I wiped my face with my sleeve, tried to breathe, but the sobs were already bubbling up—ragged and choking, the kind that leave no room for dignity. I couldn’t stay in this house. Not another moment.

  I fled the study, my skirts trailing behind me as I rushed down the hall. The walls blurred through my tears. I barely noticed the startled sound of my mother’s voice. “Elizabeth? What on earth—?” She stepped into the hall, her eyes wide as they caught sight of me. “Elizabeth, are you hurt—?”

  But I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. I pushed through the front door, barely noticing the servant who moved to open it too te. The air outside hit me hard and cold, a sp against my tear-warmed cheeks. My boots thudded down the stone steps, over the gravel, and into the waiting carriage. “Take me home,” I choked out to the driver.

  I cried the entire ride. Not quietly. Not delicately. My body shook with it, shoulders curled forward, hands buried in my p as I let it all come loose. Grief, shame, fury. Not just at my father, but at the weight of secrets I’d never been given a choice in. By the time the house came into view, I could hardly breathe. The carriage rolled to a stop, and I stumbled out before the footman could offer a hand. I didn’t look at Mr. Lockhart, didn’t say a word. My feet carried me through the front doors on instinct alone.

  “Eliza,” I gasped. “Where’s Aunt Eliza?”

  “Miss Elizabeth?” Mr. Lockhart called after me, armed. “Are you—?”

  I didn’t stop. I moved blindly through the hall, tears still spilling down my cheeks, my lungs burning. “Eliza!”

  She was in the dining room. I heard the faint scrape of a chair, then hurried footsteps. Eliza appeared in the entry hall, her eyes wide as they met mine. “Elizabeth—dear God.”

  I ran to her. She caught me in her arms without hesitation, wrapping me up as if she already knew. One hand on the back of my head, the other tight around my shoulders. I couldn’t speak. I just sobbed.

  “Shh, darling,” she murmured. “I’ve got you. You’re safe now.”

  “I—he—I tried—” I hiccuped, the words falling apart in my mouth.

  Eliza pressed her cheek to the top of my head. “It can wait, my love. Let’s get you calm first. You don’t have to expin. Not yet.”

  I clung to her like a lifeline, crying into the folds of her dress. The only thing I knew for certain was that I couldn’t go back to that house. Not now. And that here, in Eliza’s arms, I could finally begin to breathe again.

  Eliza didn’t say another word. She just held me, firm and steady, until my sobs began to quiet. Then she pulled back slightly, brushing the hair from my face. “Come,” she said softly, her arm still around me. “Let’s get you upstairs.”

  I nodded, too drained to speak, and let her guide me down the hall and up the steps. My legs felt like water. We stepped into my bedroom, and she led me straight to the bed. I sat on the edge like a child, hands limp in my p, my chest still hiccuping from the effort of holding it together.

  Eliza sat beside me and pulled a handkerchief from her pocket—crisp white linen with a delicate border stitched in blue. She cupped my cheek and began to blot at the tears still clinging there, patient and precise like she could absorb every st drop of pain if she was careful enough. “No one should be allowed to cry this much in one morning,” she said gently, not mocking—just trying to make space for air. I gave a weak ugh, the sound catching on the edge of another sob. “There,” she murmured, dabbing just beneath my eye. “Now I can see you again.”

  I looked at her. “He was so angry.”

  She reached for my hand and wrapped hers around it. “Tell me what happened, sweetheart. Whatever you can.”

  Piece by piece, I told her. How I had confronted my father. How I had told him what I knew—about the graves, the surgeon, the bodies he had helped provide. I told her how he hadn’t denied it. He’d admitted to it without flinching as if he’d been waiting for the question all along. He said it had never been about the money—though the money helped—but he cimed he’d done it to help medicine. To reduce suffering. To give surgeons what they needed so fewer people would die needlessly. And maybe some part of me could even believe that. But it wasn’t the act that undid me. It was the silence.

  “He said he never wanted me near them again,” I continued. “Not Benedict. Not Bartholomew. No one in that family. He didn’t even ask what I felt. Just gave an order. Like I was a child.”

  Eliza sighed quietly. “That sounds like Ezra.”

  I looked at her. “Why does he hate Bartholomew so much?”

  Eliza let out a long breath, one that seemed to carry years with it. She was quiet for a moment longer like she was debating whether to say what came next. Then she gave my hand a final squeeze and spoke. “All right,” she said. “You deserve to know.”

  I sat up a little straighter.

  “It was a long time ago,” she began. “Before you were born. Bartholomew was engaged to Genevieve—your cousin’s mother. Their engagement ball was the first time I ever met him.” She paused, eyes fixed on something distant. “I hated him instantly. He didn’t care for Genevieve. Not in the way a man should when he asks for a woman’s hand. He wanted her name. Her father’s money. Her connections. That was all. And he didn’t even bother to hide it.”

  My chest tightened. “She loved him, didn’t she?”

  “Yes,” Eliza said. “She did. Poor thing thought she could change him. That kind of hope blinds you.” I waited, sensing there was more. The worst hadn’t come yet. “Your father and I… we were involved in something dangerous. You know that now. He supplied the surgeon. I helped in my own way. Covered for him. Created distractions. Nothing direct—I never touched a body. I’d pretend to be some lost, grieving widow—sobbing near a headstone or calling for my ‘te husband,’ whatever it took to slow down anyone passing by.”

  I stared at her, stunned. “You were his decoy?”

  She nodded. “I wasn’t proud of it—but after being cooped up in my parents’ house for so long, it gave me confidence. It was my first taste of real freedom, even if it came with sharp edges. Ezra told me what he’d see—how many people died for ck of knowledge. We weren’t stealing jewelry or secrets. We were helping people. It just didn’t always look noble.” Her jaw tightened slightly.

  “One night, Bartholomew followed us. I don’t know how long he’d suspected something, but he saw enough. He caught Ezra mid-dig, and he saw me keeping watch.”

  My stomach dropped. “What did he do?”

  “He smiled. That was the worst part. He smiled like he’d found a toy. A weakness he could twist.” Eliza’s voice fttened. “Right there, he confronted us. Said he’d stay quiet—he wouldn’t report Ezra, wouldn’t ruin his name or send him to prison—so long as I agreed to become his mistress. Ezra wanted to kill him. At first, Genevieve tried to convince herself it could work. She had no family to run to, no one to tell her otherwise. And Bartholomew—well, he was charming when he wanted to be. But by the time she saw him clearly, it was too te. He’d already closed every door behind her.”

  “And you?” I asked. “What did you do?”

  “I said no,” Eliza said. “Of course I did. I told him I’d rather ruin my name and rot in prison than sleep in his bed.”

  “So how did you get out of it?”

  Her mouth curved slightly—cold, but triumphant. “Cameron.”

  I blinked. “Cameron?”

  “Yes, indeed. As heir to a dukedom, his words hold a lot of meaning for some people, though he’s less concerned with titles than most. Your father spoke to him the night that Bartholomew found out. A month ter, he confronted Bartholomew at the opera—polite, yes, but loud enough for half the peerage to hear. He said he'd heard a troubling rumor: that Bartholomew was bckmailing some poor girl into being his mistress, even while the 'debutante of the century' wore his ring. Lady Whistlefeather and the gossip columns did the rest. Bartholomew couldn’t touch me after that. Too much heat. Too many eyes. The engagement was broken off the next day. Bartholomew fled to the continent and his reputation has been half-mended ever since, but never fully.” I sat there, stunned.

  “So Father knew,” I said finally. “He knew everything. That Bartholomew threatened you. That he tried to ruin you.”

  “Yes,” Eliza said softly. “Which is why he never forgave him. And why the name still makes Ezra go cold.”

  “And now I’ve walked into all of it.”

  “You didn’t know,” Eliza said. “But now you do. And now you need to decide what to do with it.”

  I nodded slowly, the weight of it settling across my shoulders. Bartholomew hadn’t just told me the truth. He’d kept the most important parts for himself. Eliza had gone quiet, her thumb still brushing gently over the back of my hand. But I could see the weight of something else in her eyes—something she hadn’t shared yet. She looked at me, then asked, “Do you know why Ezra got into the practice in the first pce?”

  I shook my head slowly. “He just said… he didn’t want to see people die because doctors weren’t allowed to study. That was all he ever gave me.”

  Eliza smiled, but it was a sad smile. She looked down at our joined hands. “When we were five, I nearly died.” I stared at her. “Croup,” she said softly. “It hit suddenly. One night I was fine, the next morning I could hardly breathe. Passed out right at the bottom of the grand staircase. They id me in bed and tried everything—cold cloths, mustard poultices, steam—but nothing worked. The doctor came and just… stood there. He’d seen it before, but he didn’t know how to stop it. Not really. Just watched me turn blue, watched my chest rattle.” Her voice caught slightly. “Ezra sat in the corner, curled up in a chair. Didn’t say a word.”

  I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry. “He told me years ter,” Eliza continued, “that it was the first time he understood what helplessness felt like. Watching someone he loved suffer, and knowing that no one—not even the man who was supposed to save her—knew what to do.” She looked up at me again. “He said he knew it was wrong. Even at five. That it was wrong for doctors to work blind, to guess, to hope, and call it medicine. That was the day something changed in him. Even then.”

  I sat still, the full picture settling around me. My father as a boy, watching his twin sister choke and fil and fight for breath, and seeing a doctor fumble in the dark with no tools and no knowledge.

  “He carried that with him,” Eliza said. “Through school, through training, through every lecture and text. And when the chance came to do something—something awful but useful—he took it. Because he remembered what it felt like to sit in that chair and do nothing.”

  The edges of my anger softened, curling into something heavier. Not forgiveness. Not yet. But understanding. “I didn’t know,” I whispered.

  “Of course you didn’t,” Eliza said. “He doesn’t tell people that part. He just builds walls and dares you to climb them.”

  I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. Father hadn’t just wanted to stop death. He’d felt it coming for Eliza with tiny, suffocating hands. And it had left a mark on both of them. I didn’t speak for a while after Eliza finished. The room had gone still. Outside the window, the light had softened into the pale gray of te afternoon. The kind of light that made everything look gentler than it felt. Father’s silence. Bartholomew’s threat. The graveyard. The illness that almost stole Eliza’s breath. It all sat inside me now, reshaping the edges of things I thought I knew.

  I reached up and wiped the st of the tears from my cheek, this time without needing Eliza’s handkerchief. “I think I just need to be alone for a bit,” I said quietly.

  Eliza nodded, rising without fuss. She pressed a kiss to the top of my head, a soft whisper of comfort, and then slipped out of the room. When the door closed, I y back on the bed and stared up at the ceiling. Everything had changed but also hadn’t. The truth had always been there, just waiting in the cracks. Now I saw it and I didn’t know what I’d do with it yet. But I would have to decide.. and soon.