Chapter 152: Old Memories of Love
At the sight of them, the woman’s body jolted as if struck. She stumbled backward until her thin frame collided with the wall, then collapsed to the floor in a heap. Her arms shot up to cover her face, nails clawing at her tangled hair.
"Go away!" she screamed, voice ragged from disuse, breaking into gasps between words. "Tell Hadrian... Tell him the truth will not stay buried! It will claw its way out! Do you hear me? It will burn him! It will burn you all!"
Her cries cracked into sobs, a keening wail that echoed against the stone chamber. She rocked back and forth, shaking, her screams turning shrill, then guttural, like a creature cornered.
Lorraine’s breath caught in her chest. For a moment, all she saw was a madwoman driven past the edge of reason. But then, behind the wildness, she remembered. She remembered the curve of lips that once gave her the gentlest smile, a smile that could soften any sickness. She remembered amber eyes bright as burning coal, eyes that had looked at her with kindness when no one else did.
Memories pressed against her heart, of the woman sneaking bread through the cracks of the cellar door, her tiny hands getting the food. She didn’t even remember thanking her back then, and yet, she still sneaked her food. She had been the light in a house where love had no place.
And now that light trembled, broken, drowning in shadows.
Lorraine’s steps were slow, deliberate. Leroy’s gloved hand brushed her arm, halting her. His stance tightened, defensive, the golden mask tilted sharply toward the cowering figure. His voice was low, edged with warning. "Lorraine."
But she shook her head, her eyes fixed on the woman. "She won’t hurt me," she whispered.
Lorraine sank to her knees, gathering Aralyn’s trembling frame against her. The woman writhed at first, nails scraping against the floorboards, then clutched at Lorraine’s sleeve as though drowning. The reek of sweat, sickness, and neglect clung to her skin, but Lorraine did not flinch; her arms only tightened, her cheek pressing gently into tangled hair.
A shadow fell across them. Leroy strode forward, boots cutting through the straw-strewn floor, his mask spattered with the crimson proof of his blade. His hand came down hard on Lorraine’s shoulder, firm, commanding. She didn’t move.
The gaunt woman recoiled under his presence, shrinking as though his mask itself bore judgment. Her grip on Lorraine only deepened, desperate, as if she feared being torn away.
Leroy’s hand tugged, testing her hold, his other arm sliding subtly between wife and stranger. Lorraine resisted without force, only by grounding herself, spine straight, arms unyielding. She tipped her face upward, eyes steady on his, her quiet defiance stronger than any word.
For a breath, the air strained taut between them—his protectiveness colliding with her compassion. Then, as though in answer, Aralyn’s thin fingers rose, touching Lorraine’s face with trembling reverence. The tension shifted. Lorraine leaned into the fragile touch, and the woman stilled, recognition softening her madness.
Leroy stood behind her, rigid, silent. His gloved hand pressed at the small of Lorraine’s back—not tugging, not yielding, only anchoring, as if he could keep her tethered to safety by touch alone.
The woman stilled. The shuddering in her body softened, her frantic grip loosening by inches. Slowly, her gaunt fingers trailed against Lorraine’s shoulder, tentative as a child’s. Her head lifted, hollow amber eyes blinking against the dim light. At first clouded, lost, they searched Lorraine’s face as though clawing through years of fog. Then a flicker sparked—fragile but true. Recognition.
"...little sparrow?" The words rasped from her throat, dry as old parchment, yet threaded with wonder, a name dredged from memory’s last unbroken place.
Lorraine’s vision blurred. Her lips trembled before they curved into a smile, tender and aching. She pulled Aralyn closer, the stink and frailty forgotten, her heart splitting with love and sorrow.
"Aralyn." Her whisper cracked as her smile deepened. She had almost forgotten the name, almost forgotten how Aralyn and her mother both used to call her that. Little sparrow.
Because she had never stopped chattering as a child, filling silences with questions, songs, stories, until her mother laughed in exasperation.Now, hearing it again, the name rang like a bell from another life, one Lorraine thought she’d lost forever.
Lorraine held Aralyn close, the older woman sagging against her as if her bones had long since given up the will to carry her. "She can’t stay here," she murmured, her voice steady though her heart trembled. "Leroy... bring her to the mansion."
Leroy’s jaw tightened beneath the mask. His gaze swept over the leper house, the tainted air, the wasted bodies pressed into shadow. Everything in him rebelled at the idea. He wanted to say no. To protect her, to protect them both.
But then he looked at Lorraine; her arm wrapped around the frail figure, her eyes soft with a rare, unguarded devotion. And he swallowed his protest. With a curt nod, he moved to support Aralyn on her other side.
Damian, leaning against the door, watched the scene unfold while lazily twirling his fan. "Well," he said with a crooked grin, "I did almost get my head chopped off for this little rescue, but don’t worry, I’ll settle for a pear as payment. Maybe two."
Lorraine glanced up at him, her lips curving faintly. "Thank you, Damian."
He bowed low, one hand across his chest in mock solemnity. "Always a pleasure to risk life and limb while you two collect strays." Then, with a wink, he straightened and strolled off.
Leroy exhaled sharply through his nose, not dignifying the prince’s parting words with a reply. He adjusted Aralyn’s weight, then turned his gaze forward.
Together, the three of them made their way to the carriage waiting on the dirt road beyond the leper house. The morning wind stirred dust across their path, carrying with it the heavy silence of what had been found, and the heavier questions of what awaited them next.
They had nearly reached the door when the head apothecary shuffled forward, his wrinkled hands wringing together, his gaze darting uneasily from the frail woman in Lorraine’s arms to the glint of the signet ring still swinging from her chain.
"So, the Grand Duke is...?" His voice cracked, cautious, as though even asking carried risk. News of Hadrian’s disappearance must have slithered through every corner of the city by now.
Lorraine’s heart lurched.
Did she get caught? Did he sense something abnormal?