Excerpt

Taken from Chapter One:

Chapter One

February 18, 1900. Savannah, Georgia

The gangplank was slick with seawater and the heavy fog that lay low over the docks. The sun had risen, but not long enough to burn the damp away; the ship still breathed cold and clammy air.

After the last of the passengers disembarked, a lone figure emerged from the fog. He was a small man, limping, yet carrying an unmistakable air of distinction, as though the mist itself deferred to him.

He descended the wooden ramp slowly, placing each step with care, mindful not to aggravate old injuries that never fully slept. At the bottom, he paused, cane planted firm, and surveyed the familiar shoreline as one might regard a former home—without warmth, but not without memory.

Somewhere down river a foghorn sounded in the mist. The old man cut his eyes in the direction of the sound for an instant, listening.

A boy—no more than twelve—ran up to him, eyes bright with practiced hope.
“Carry your bags, Mist’a?”

The man nearly waved him off, but something gave him pause. Not the boy’s size. Not even his eagerness. It was the quickness behind his eyes—the turn of his attention.

A faint smile touched the man’s mouth.
“My bags are already seen to,” he said. “But I may have a job for you. What’s your name?”

“Bright, sir. Billy Bright.”

The man gave a low chuckle. “Yes,” he said. “You are.”

“You ain’t from ’ere, are you, Mist’a? You sound funny.”

The man shifted his weight, leaning more heavily on his cane. “No. Not from here. Though I’ve spent a great deal of time in this place.”

“You said you got a job for me?”

“Straight to the point. I like that.” He studied the boy. “Do you live nearby?”

Billy hesitated, then pointed toward a shed behind the dock house. “Man that owns it lets me sleep there.”

“Tonight,” the man said, resting a hand briefly on the boy’s shoulder, “you’ll sleep in a warm bed.”

Billy tilted his head, listening hard.

“Do you know where the Hotel DeSoto is?”

“Yes, sir. East Liberty Street.”

“Correct. You’ll go there and tell them I’ve arrived, and that my room is to be made ready. Then you’ll tell them to give you a room nearby—and a proper meal. You’ll take a bath. And you’ll be given clean clothes.”

From his coat pocket, the man produced a gold coin and let it glint dully in the gray light.
“You think you can manage that, Billy Bright?”

“Yes sir—yes sir,” Billy said, already turning to run.

He made it only a step or two before stopping short.
“Who should I say, sir? What’s your name?”

The man watched the fog shift around the docks before answering.

“Tell them Luka Dragan is here.”

Hazel sat near the fireplace, the letter resting loosely in her hands as the last of the afternoon light slipped from the room. Outside, winter pressed gently against the windows—not cruel, but insistent. Savannah rarely knew true cold, yet February carried a damp chill that crept into the bones and refused to leave. And last night had been unusually cold.

The fire crackled softly, settling in on itself. Hazel barely noticed.

She had already read the letter twice. She read it again.

My dearest Aunt Hazel,

Washington is colder than I imagined, though Troy insists it is nothing compared to what it will be by next winter. I am learning that the capital is a place where appearances matter almost as much as truths.

We have been received far more kindly than I expected. Wimbledon—who, it seems, has lived a life we scarcely knew—was honored for his years of service. I had no idea, Aunt Hazel. None at all. To see him standing so straight, accepting the gratitude of men who govern this nation, was something I shall not soon forget.

He is healing nicely. The cane remains, though he scarcely needs it now. He pretends it is for our benefit rather than his own. You know how he is.

Hazel smiled faintly at that, though the smile did not last.

Our training continues. It is… difficult to explain, and I know you would prefer I did not try. Suffice it to say that Troy and I are stronger than we were. More aware. The work is exhausting, yet necessary. Some nights I feel as though I have lived several lives before morning comes.

Something else has developed. Troy and I are closer than ever before. He sends his regards, though he insists he will write you himself soon. Although he hasn’t made it official as of yet, you may want to let Eloise know a celebration may be in order soon.

Hazel exhaled slowly. Noise had never suited Lauren.

We will return home by March, God willing. I find myself longing for the sound of the sea and your morning tea. Washington is impressive, but it is not home.

With all my love,
Lauren

Hazel lowered the letter. For a long moment, she stared into the fire as a log shifted and collapsed inward, sending a brief scatter of sparks up the chimney. The sound was sharp in the otherwise quiet room.

She folded the letter carefully and placed it on the small table beside her chair, smoothing it as though the paper itself might be comforted by the gesture.

“I must tell her,” Hazel murmured to the empty room.

The words sounded heavier aloud, though she had not meant to speak them. Poor Eloise.

The thought settled over her like a weight she could not shrug off. Eloise had always been the steady one—the quiet presence just beyond the doorway, watching, guiding, protecting. Hazel had trusted her without question.

Now, trust felt like something fragile.

The fire popped again. Hazel reached for the bell cord and gave it a gentle pull. A moment later, a maid appeared at the doorway.

“Would you like more tea, Mistress Hazel?”

Hazel nodded. “Yes, thank you. And—tend the fire. I think I shall sit here a while longer.”

When the maid withdrew, Hazel leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes.

Lauren was stronger now. She could hear it in the words between the lines of the letter—the careful phrasing, the quiet confidence. The child she had raised was gone, replaced by a young woman carrying burdens Hazel scarcely understood.

And yet, there were some truths no letter could carry. Some fires could not be written away.

Hazel opened her eyes and watched the flames until they burned low, knowing that Lauren would be returning soon, well before March—there would be no avoiding what must be said.

She drew a slow breath and reached for the bell cord. When the maid returned, Hazel did not look up at once. “I will need pen and paper,” she said quietly. “And afterward, I will ask a favor of you.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The maid set the writing things on the small desk by the window and withdrew. Hazel moved to the desk, her movements deliberate, as though haste might undo her resolve. She seated herself, dipped the pen, and stared at the blank page for a long moment.

Then she wrote.

Dearest Lauren,

I regretfully must tell you there has been an accident.

Last night, during the cold, Eloise left the house after I had gone to bed. We found her body at the beach, still dressed in her nightclothes.

It hurts me deeply to tell you this. She was the strong one.

There is no explanation as of yet as to why she went out on such a cold night.

Love,
Hazel

Hazel read the note once. She did not read it again. Her hand trembled only as she folded the paper. She pressed it flat, as if smoothing the words might soften their blow, then placed it carefully into an envelope.

When the maid returned, Hazel stood and handed it to her.

“This must be sent by telegraph,” she said. Her voice was steady now—too steady. “At once.”

“Yes, Mistress Hazel.”

Hazel watched as the maid hurried from the room, the envelope held as though it carried something fragile.

She returned to her chair by the fire and sat slowly. The room felt suddenly larger, emptier, as though something essential had slipped quietly away. Eloise had been the watcher. The guardian just beyond sight. The one who never faltered.

Hazel closed her eyes, her hands folded tightly in her lap.

And far away, in a city of marble and power, Lauren Fullerton’s world was about to break—again—this time in the waking light.

Washington, D.C. Late Afternoon.

The telegram arrived while the light was still good. Lauren sat near the window in the parlor of their rented house, a book open in her lap, though she had not turned a page in some time. Outside, carriage wheels rattled over stone and voices drifted faintly through the glass. Washington moved endlessly, restlessly, as if urgency itself were built into its streets.

She heard the knock before Troy did. It was sharp. Official.

Lauren looked up, a faint unease stirring. Troy entered from the adjoining room moments later, already reaching for his coat. “I’ll see to it,” he said, offering her a small smile. “Probably another summons or notice.”

She nodded, though her fingers had tightened around the edge of the book.

He returned less than a minute later. He did not smile.

“Lauren,” he said quietly.

Something in his voice made her straighten. “What is it?”

He hesitated—only a fraction of a second—but she saw it. Troy crossed the room and knelt beside her chair before holding out the folded paper. “It’s for you.”

Her name stared back at her in neat, impersonal script. Lauren took the telegram. The paper felt heavier than it should have.

She unfolded it. Read once. Stopped breathing. Her eyes moved back to the beginning and read it again, slower this time, as though comprehension might soften the words if she gave them time.

Her face drained of color. Troy watched helplessly as the change came over her—not dramatic, not sudden—but like a tide slipping out, leaving something hollowed behind.

“Lauren?” he whispered.

She did not answer. Her hands began to shake.

“It’s Eloise,” she said finally. Her voice sounded distant to her own ears, as though it belonged to someone else. “She… she’s gone.”

Troy’s chest tightened. “Gone?”

“She left the house,” Lauren continued, the words flattening as they left her mouth. “At night. In the cold.” Her eyes flicked up to his, wide now, unseeing. “They found her the next morning… at the beach.”

Troy reached for her instinctively, taking the telegram as it slipped from her grasp. He read it quickly—once was enough.

“Oh, God,” he murmured.

Lauren’s breath hitched, sharp and sudden, like a blade catching. “She was the strong one,” Lauren said, repeating Hazel’s words without realizing it. “She was always watching. Always there.”

Her hands pressed flat against her skirt, as though anchoring herself. “She wouldn’t just—walk out,” she said. “She wouldn’t.”

Troy moved closer, placing his hands gently over hers. “No,” he agreed softly. “She wouldn’t.”

Lauren swallowed, her jaw trembling now. “Then why?”

The question had no answer.

Her breath broke then—not into sobs, not yet—but into something quieter and more terrible. Tears slid down her cheeks without sound, one after another, as though her body had decided crying was inevitable whether she consented or not.

“She promised,” Lauren whispered. “She promised she would always watch over us.” Her fingers clenched in his coat. “It seems that God takes everyone I lean on.”

She looked up, eyes swollen. “Troy… please.”

He closed his eyes, pulling her close, voice breaking despite his effort. “I will be here.”

And somewhere deep beneath the marble and stone of Washington, something old and terrible stirred—drawn not by power this time, but by grief. The dreams had once again followed.