Thorned Hearts and Hidden Vows

The warehouse roared like a beast, flames clawing at the night. Eliza lunged toward the burning doors, Mr. Ashford's shout ringing in her ears. "Eliza, *stop*!" 

She didn't. Heat seared her cheeks as she shoved past Madame Voss's men, their curses swallowed by the inferno. Inside, smoke choked the air, embers falling like cursed snow. The boy crouched beneath a beam, his face streaked with soot and terror. 

"Come with me!" Eliza cougched, grabbing his hand. 

"Can't—leg's stuck!" 

The beam pinned his ankle, flames licking closer. Eliza threw her weight against it, splinters digging into her palms. "Theodore—*help*!" 

He was there in an instant, coat singed, eyes wild. Together, they heaved the beam aside. The boy screamed as Mr. Ashford scooped him up, darting through the collapsing maze. 

They burst into the cold dawn, collapsing on the docks as the warehouse groaned into ash. The boy trembled in Eliza's arms, his breaths ragged. 

Madame Voss materialized from the smoke, her emerald gown untouched. "Sentimentality is expensive, Ashford." 

He stood, bloodied but unbowed. "The deal is void." 

"*Void*?" Her laugh was a razor. "You owe me a fire. That—" she gestured to the ruins, "—was a *spark*. But I'll consider the debt paid… for the boy." 

Eliza clutched him tighter. "No." 

Madame Voss's smile turned feral. "His name is Jem. He's mine—stole a silver spoon last week. But I'll gift him to you… for a price." 

Mr. Ashford stepped forward. "Name it." 

"A letter. In your sister's hand. You'll know the one." 

Eliza froze. *Margaret's letters.* 

"No," Mr. Ashford growled. 

"Then the boy burns with the rest." 

Jem whimpered. Eliza met Theodore's gaze—a storm of fury and helplessness. 

"Do it," she whispered. 

He flinched. "You don't understand—" 

"I understand *this*." She pressed Jem's face to her shoulder, shielding him. 

Madame Voss held out a gloved hand. "The letter. By midnight." 

* * * 

The ride to Willowmere was silent, Jem asleep on Eliza's lap. Mr. Ashford drove the chaise like a man chased by furies. 

"What's in the letter?" Eliza asked at last. 

"A name. Margaret's child—Rivoli's bastard. Buried in a Neapolitan convent." 

Eliza's breath caught. "She has a *daughter*?" 

"Had. The girl died of fever. Margaret's never forgiven herself." 

"And Madame Voss wants the world to know." 

He nodded, jaw clenched. "Corbyn's employer would pay a fortune for the scandal. Margaret's ruin. My family's end." 

"Then we don't give it to her." 

"And Jem?" 

Eliza stroked the boy's hair. "We find another way." 

* * * 

Willowmere's gates loomed. Margaret waited on the steps, her shawl billowing like a shroud. "What have you done, Theodore?" 

He lifted Jem from the chaise. "Saved a life." 

"At what cost?" 

Eliza intercepted, steering Margaret inside. "He needs broth. And a surgeon." 

But Margaret gripped her arm, nails sharp. "You think you can fix him? Fix *us*? We're broken, Miss Woodhouse. Cut yourself free while you can." 

"I don't believe that," Eliza said. 

Margaret's laugh was a hollow thing. "You will." 

* * * 

In the library, Mr. Ashford poured brandy with shaking hands. Eliza faced him. "We'll forge the letter. Madame Voss won't know the difference." 

"She'll demand proof. The convent's seal. A lock of the child's hair." 

"Then we'll get them." 

He stared at her. "You'd go to Italy? Lie to a nun?" 

"I'd do worse to protect Jem. And you." 

The glass shattered in his grip, brandy bleeding across the desk. "Why?" 

She stepped closer. "Because I see you, Theodore. The man beneath the debts and thorns." 

His breath hitched. "That man is dead." 

"No." She cupped his face, blood and brandy on her palms. "He's right here." 

The kiss was wildfire. 

* * * 

Dawn found them in the stables, saddling horses. Jem clung to Eliza's skirts. "Don't go." 

She knelt. "We'll return. I swear it." 

Mr. Ashford strapped a pistol to his saddle. "The convent is three days' ride. If we're not back by the full moon—" 

"You'll be back," Margaret said from the shadows. She pressed a velvet pouch into Eliza's hand. Inside lay a ring—a serpent coiled around a sapphire. "Show this to the Mother Superior. And… thank you." 

Eliza mounted her horse. "For what?" 

"For making him hope." 

They rode into the rising sun, the weight of lies and love at their heels. 

* * * 

At the crossroads, a figure awaited—Corbyn, pistol drawn. 

"Hand over the boy," he sneered, "or die where you stand." 

Mr. Ashford drew his blade. "You'll have neither." 

Eliza spurred her horse forward. "Run, Jem!" 

The shot rang out.