Chapter 2
Agnes leaned against Martin, peppering him with questions.
She asked, "Martin, I heard you haven't been back to the back quarters for days. Have you been holed up in your study all this time?"
I floated above the carriage roof, my gaze fixed on Martin's face.
He pinched the bridge of his nose, his voice icy. "Why mention her? She ruined my mood."
Was he thinking about me right now? Did hearing my name really annoy him that much?
We had been married for three years, but tonight, he smiled at Agnes more than he ever smiled at me in all that time.
Agnes lowered her head, a smug smile tugging at her lips.
The carriage pulled up to the entrance of the side house.
Sure enough, Agnes glanced back at Martin and said, "Martin, why don't you come up for some mead? I just got a fresh jug poured."
Just then, an urgent summons from the Ministry of Justice arrived.
Martin's brow furrowed. "Something's come up. Go on up without me."
Agnes looked a bit disappointed, but she nodded meekly and stepped out of the carriage.
Martin turned his horse and headed off toward the Ministry of Justice.
The Ministry of Justice was brightly lit. Erik Belmont, the deputy, stood waiting at the entrance, his face tense with worry.
Erik said, "My lord, we've got a major problem."
Martin swung off his horse and tossed the reins to a servant.
He asked, "Well? Did you finally catch that Ghost Hand?"
Erik's face turned ashen. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, clearly unsure whether to speak.
He stammered, "We... we caught him. It's just..."
"Just what?" Martin pressed, striding inside and shrugging off his cloak.
"Spit it out. Don't just stand there mumbling," Martin snapped.
"We... we found something on the criminal," Erik finally managed.
With shaking hands, he presented a blood-soaked pouch.
The pouch was fine brocade, embroidered with a pair of awkward-looking swans.
I had strained my eyes, stitching it for Martin's birthday, every thread filled with care.
He'd called it ugly and tossed it into a corner of his study, but I'd secretly picked it up and kept it close to me ever since, treating it like my most precious treasure.
Martin froze in his tracks. His gaze fixed on the pouch, his pupils narrowing suddenly.
"How did this... end up with that bandit?" Martin's voice was tense.
Erik dropped to his knees with a thud. "My lord... the bandit confessed that he tore this off one of the ladies from Fletcher Manor in the west of the city.
"He said... he said she was fiercely stubborn, bit him hard, so he used an instrument string... and strangled her to death."
Martin muttered, "What did you just say?"
He just froze, like he'd been hit by a thunderbolt.
He said, "Fletcher Manor? One of the ladies? Who else could it be but Isabel, always picking fights and getting jealous?"
He let out a sudden laugh, but it was icy, almost mocking, no warmth at all.
Martin said coldly, "Impossible. Isabel values her life above all else. Whenever there's the slightest sign of trouble, she makes a scene so everyone in the manor knows.
"She must be acting again. Just to get me to come home, she'd even make up wild stories about bandits."
Martin whirled around, a storm of rage swirling in his eyes. He ordered, "You there! Get my horse! We're heading back to the manor! Let's see what act she's putting on this time!"
I floated behind him, watching the veins throbbing at his temple.
Martin was finally coming home. He looked livid, but I was already dead.
My life was frozen forever on that night of utter despair. He would never get to scold me again.
Martin spurred his horse into a wild gallop, knocking over stalls and vendors in his wake.
The cold wind sliced across his face like a knife, but it was nothing compared to the panic rising in his chest.
"Impossible," Martin growled through clenched teeth.
His fingers tightened around the reins until his knuckles turned white.
'Isabel, if you dare trick me with something like this, I swear I'll cast you out!' Martin thought.
He'd already run through his lines in his head countless times, getting ready for when he finally saw me.
He was going to put me in my place, call me out on my act, and watch the high-and-mighty face twist with embarrassment. Just like he'd always done before.
Martin arrived at Fletcher Manor.
The gate loomed ahead, like a beast with its jaws agape, lurking in the shadows.
On any other night, the moment his horse's hooves hit the ground, the servants would be out front with lanterns, ready to greet him.
Tonight, though, there was only a deathly silence.
Martin swung off his horse, staggering as his feet hit the ground.
The main gate stood half open, its copper lock smashed by something sharp, left dangling from the door ring and banging loudly with every gust of wind.
The noise was especially piercing in the deserted street.
"Anyone there?" Martin roared. He charged up the steps, clutching his whip. "Is everyone dead? Not even a damn gatekeeper left around here?"