Your bridegroom is six feet under in the frozen timber, Clara, and crying won't buy your fare back to Missouri.
My hand tightened around the rolled covenant, instinctively pulling it to my chest. I wouldn’t let him have it. Not this.
Elijah’s fingers, cold and rough, brushed against my arm, reaching for the document.
“I said, give it to me,” he snarled, his mask of calm finally cracking.
But I was faster. I shoved the parchment inside my bodice, tucking it deep against my skin. The rough paper scratched, but it was safe.
His eyes flashed with rage. He lunged, but I sidestepped, moving around the heavy desk. He wouldn’t search me here, not with the lamp still burning. Not yet.
He let out a frustrated growl, his gaze lingering on the bulge in my bodice. “You think you’re clever, girl. But you’re just delaying the inevitable.”
He turned abruptly, slamming his fist on the desktop. The lamp flickered wildly. “Get out. Go back to your room. Now.”
I didn’t argue. I backed away, keeping my eyes on him. I knew I couldn’t beat him in a physical confrontation here. Not yet.
I slipped out of the study and back into the dark hallway, my heart still thrumming. He hadn’t gotten the covenant. That was a small victory.
But his words about my mother, about her “melancholia” and “weakness,” had cut deep. I knew the truth. She had been an intelligent, spirited woman, systematically crushed by Elijah’s cruelty and financial manipulations. I would not let him do the same to me.
I decided not to go back to my room. He’d just lock me in again. I needed to keep moving, keep searching. There had to be more.
I crept down to the lower kitchen, the floorboards cold beneath my feet. The moonlight filtered weakly through a grimy window, illuminating the cramped space.
My eyes scanned the room, looking for anything out of place. The pantry door stood slightly ajar.
I pushed it open. Inside, shelves lined with canned goods, sacks of flour, and jars of preserves. All seemed normal.
But then, I noticed a slight discoloration on the floorboards near the back wall. A section that looked newer, or at least less worn than the rest. And a faint, uneven gap.
I knelt, pressing my fingers along the seam. The plank moved.
With renewed hope, I pried it up. Beneath it, nestled in the dark earth, was a leather-bound book.
A ledger.
I pulled it out, brushing off the dust. It was thick, heavy, filled with neat, precise handwriting. I took it to the sliver of moonlight.
It wasn’t a homestead ledger. It was Elijah’s private financial records. My eyes scanned the careful columns of figures. Debts. Large ones.
One entry, dated six months prior, caught my eye. “Owed: Eastern Land Syndicate – $3,200.”
$3,200. A massive sum in this territory. And beneath it, in a different, more erratic hand, was a chilling note:
“Pledged to satisfy debt by feeding the well. Unearth ancient silver vein beneath homestead. Blood tithe required.”
My blood ran cold. *Feeding the well.* *Blood tithe.*
The words confirmed my darkest suspicions. Elijah wasn’t just after land. He was after something buried deep beneath this house. He had a pact. A dark, horrific bargain, sealed with human blood.
He had promised human sacrifice to some unseen force beneath the earth, all for silver. This wasn’t merely murder for property. This was something far, far worse.
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