Page 80 of When Hearts Surrender

Inside lies an envelope, the same envelope I saw in my dreams.

My Beloved Emma.

Shaking, I fall into my chair, a chill settling into my bones. Quickly, I open the envelope, my mind swirling with thoughts, none of which makes sense.

Nothing is inside.

What on earth is going on?

Chapter 29

The next afternoon, Istep out of my bathroom, a towel wrapped around my body, the hot shower doing little to warm me.

I can’t seem to dispel the ice lodged inside my chest, and I wonder how much of it is because of the dismal weather outside or if it’s something else. The room spins as the dizziness that has plagued me sporadically in the last few months makes a reappearance.

I’ve probably been working too hard, that’s all. Or maybe those crazy dreams or visions or whatever you want to call them are impacting me.

I’ve wracked my brain trying to make sense of the dream in the Elysium—the hidden compartment, the letter which feels so real and yet there’s no evidence of it ever being there, other than the empty envelope. Could I have come across their names before when I was exploring the library? Maybe saw a mention of a hidden compartment and somehow forgotten about it?

Many questions, but no answers.

I’ve spent hours in the library this morning reading Silas’s journals, but like Maxwell said, there’s nothing from the 1860s and the ones from later don’t mention an Emma.

It’s like my mind is spinning stories, just like the whispers and moans I hear in the house at night, the ones I attribute to the estate being old. I don’t mention these dreams to Maxwell, because he’ll think I’m crazy.

The answer will come to me. It has to.

A fresh wave of dizziness hits me and I close my eyes, willing it to stop.

Could I be pregnant?

My breath stalls, but then I remember I just had my period two weeks ago, and the hope deflates inside me.

We’ve only been trying for a few months, which is nothing for people my age, but with my condition, my ovaries aren’t like those of someone in their mid-twenties. They are more like the ovaries of someone in their mid-forties or later. I don’t have the luxury of time.

I may have buried myself under the covers and cried when I saw the toilet bowl filling with blood.

The strange spell passes, and suddenly, I feel fine again. I make a note to call my doctor to fit me into their schedule for a checkup.

Taking out a cashmere sweater from the walk-in closet, I hear a terse knock.

“Come in. The door is unlocked,” I holler.

A heated, reassuring presence fills the room and I don’t even need to turn around to knowhe’shere.

“Belle, we need to talk.” Maxwell sounds grim.

Frowning, I turn to him, finding his brows furrowed, his lips flattened, as he takes a seat on my bed. He’s wearing a blue button-down shirt, his sleeves rolled up with the collar opened, looking much too good in business casual attire.

“What’s going on?”

“You can’t volunteer at the shelter anymore.”

“What! Why?” My mouth drops open from shock.

“I looked into your boss, Bob, and I don’t trust him. He’s involved in some illegal activities and also has ties to a few gangs. It’s not safe for you there.”

Anger boils in my veins as I stalk toward him. “That’s not for you to decide.”

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