Page 166 of When Hearts Surrender

I’ve always avoided going to the rooftop garden—it has always been a place that seems more haunted, mournful, colder than the rest of the house. But right now, the discomfort from before has disappeared, and in its place I feel a breathlessness.

Anticipation.

Moments later, we step into the abandoned garden, a breeze brushing over our skin—a gentle caress. The weeds have grown taller than when I was here many years ago, but for the most part, it looks exactly the same—frozen in time.

Belle pulls me toward the edge of the roof, to the side facing the rose garden, and my pulse echoes in my ears, the rickety click I hear when sitting on a rollercoaster, ascending to the peak before plummeting down. Silently, she tugs me to the bench that has been there for as long as I can remember, her eyes wild, a desperate gleam in them.

“Look,” she whispers urgently, pointing to a rusty placard I’ve never noticed before, because I’ve made it my business to avoid this place.

My heart is buried here with you, my love resting alongside you for eternity and beyond.

I’ll forever roam the land, searching for you, aching for you.

Missing you.

Scything agony tears through my chest, the impact robbing my breath like a gut punch. I clutch the bench for support as the world spins around me and an inexplicable wetness gathers in my eyes.

Heartbreak. Traumatizing heartbreak that has teased the edge of my consciousness for my entire life; a hole inside me I’ve always thought was attributed to my role in the curse. Except now, the veil is pierced, and the pain rushes through, so potent it’s disorienting.

“W-What?” I whisper, staring at the words that seem so familiar, yet I could’ve sworn I’d never seen before.

Visions of me clutching Belle in the rose garden below, the storm raging around us—a sepia-tinged slideshow that’s becoming clearer by the minute.

“I know. I know,” she whispers back before touching a spot on the placard and I hear a quiet clickbefore a brick pops out.

Still reeling from the onslaught of grief, I stare at Belle as she takes out the brick and sets it aside. Then she reaches inside and takes out a parcel wrapped in paper and twine.

“I found this the day I was taken. It’s Silas’s missing journal from the time period when everything started.”

She looks up, her eyes filling with sadness as she carefully flips opens the leather-bound cover.

January 2, 1860, Wraithmoor Abbey

I saw your smile today and I can’t fathom why you were happy given you were ironing dresses and jackets at five in the morning.

I can see it. Her smile.Belle’ssmile brightening a dreary morning as she hovers over a table, hard at work with a pile of laundry gathered on the side.

A lump forms in my throat. I’m well educated, multiple degrees under my belt. Other than the curse that my family believed in for good reason, I’m a believer in science.

But nothing can explain this. Nothing except for… I take a deep breath and keep reading.

January 13, 1860, Wraithmoor Abbey

You came into the library tonight, looking for a specific book for Louisa, a Herculean task I heard her give you when I walked past her rooms earlier today.

My wife was temperamental and would most likely change her mind tomorrow, andall of us would suffer from her wrath. You didn’t notice me as you bustled around the bookshelves, humming under your breath even though I knew you had been working since before dawn and must be exhausted.

I should’ve announced my presence, but I found myself transfixed, wondering what the source of your happiness was, and if you could find it in you to share it with me.

Curiously, instead of picking up only one volume, you started piling more and more books on your hand. The stack balanced precariously high, all the while you wore that beautiful smile on your face, like you were excited at the worlds you would find in the pages within your arms.

And when I finally couldn’t resist anymore, and asked, “Which one of those books are you most looking forward to?” You let out a very unladylike shriek and the books dropped to the floor with an unfortunate volume or two joining the kinder in the fireplace.

Your first words to me were, “You are a serial murderer of books, YourGrace!”

But your lips twitched, the humor clear in your eyes, and I felt a spark of happiness in my chest.

I think back to Austria, when I saw Belle making a mess of the cooking, the strange sensation I felt when I called her a serial murderer of vegetables. How it felt familiar when she gave me a mock glare, an impish smile on her face.

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