Chapter 13 - The Second Invitation
Arthur took the stairs three at a time, ignoring the searing pain tearing across his stitched shoulder.
The corridor outside Eleanor’s private suite was in chaos.
Two estate nurses were pinned to the floor by Arthur’s private security team while doctors shouted orders inside the room.
Arthur shoved his way through the double doors, his eyes locking onto Eleanor’s pale face.
She was conscious, clutching her throat, coughing violently as an oxygen mask was strapped over her mouth.
"Check the saline bag!" Arthur roared, grabbing the attending physician by his lapels.
"We did, sir! It’s clean," the doctor stammered, pointing at the bedside table. "It wasn't the medicine."
Arthur followed the doctor’s trembling finger toward the silver tray beside Eleanor’s bed.
Sitting among the syringes and monitors was a pristine, jet-black envelope sealed with crimson wax.
It hadn't been there twenty minutes ago.
The wax seal bore the exact same crowned serpent Arthur had seen carved into the dead bride's skin.
Arthur released the doctor and stepped slowly toward the bedside table, his hand resting on the holster under his arm.
Eleanor reached out, her frail fingers clawing at his sleeve, shaking her head in silent terror.
Arthur picked up the envelope with gloved fingers and sliced the wax with a silver pocket knife.
Inside was not a letter.
It was a single, high-resolution glossy photograph taken through a high-powered telephoto lens.
The picture showed Arthur standing by the altar two hours ago, his hands covered in blood.
In the bottom right corner was a red digital timestamp counting backward from 04:00:00.
Four hours.
Turned over, the back of the photograph held five words written in elegant gold calligraphy:
*You married the wrong sister.*
Arthur felt the floor tilt beneath his boots.
He looked down at Eleanor, whose eyes were wide with a sickening, ancient guilt.
"Grandmother," Arthur whispered, the chill in his voice colder than the morgue. "What did Grandfather do thirty years ago?"
Eleanor pulled the oxygen mask down with trembling hands, her breath coming in ragged gasps.
"He didn't drown the cargo, Arthur," she wheezed, tears cutting through the wrinkles on her cheeks.
May you like
"What cargo?" Arthur demanded, leaning over the bed.
"The children," she whispered. "He locked the hold and let the ship go down."
