Reverend Edmund’s voice reached her through the cool shadows of the chapel hall.
“Constance,” he said, low, precise. “Your sister, she has been in an accident. At the museum. She is now at the Hawthorne estate. With Adelia Sinclair and Dr.Gracewater.”
Constance froze. The words landed like a hammer on stone.
“Hawthorne estate?” Her hands clenched around the folds of her robes. “Both of them?”
Edmund nodded. His eyes, always so carefully measured, softened.
“Yes. I know what you think of that place. And yet, you must go. She requires you.”
Constance did not move immediately. The name of the estate, the mention of Adelia Sinclair and Dr. Byron Gracewater, each pressed into her mind with a weight that was more than mortal. Her heart did not race. It did not quiver. Fear was a luxury she had never permitted herself.
Blasphemy. That was the word that came first. Not for the estate itself, not for its architecture, but for what it represented. That her sister, her blood, could be placed in the care, or under the gaze, of creatures she had spent a lifetime learning to recognize. Creatures whose nature she had memorized like scripture, Stillness where breath should rise and fall. Blood that refused to clot, slick and too bright beneath the skin. Reflections that lagged, or did not exist.
She prayed, silently, fiercely, as she started to move. Not for herself, but for the abominations she would confront. Each step carried conviction, each breath disciplined, measured, deliberate. Fog clung to the street as Constance broke from the chapel hall, her robes flaring with each step. Her boots struck stone with a rhythm that was neither hurried nor hesitant, but precise, an echo of the discipline that had carried her through years of vigilance.
Her lungs burned. Each inhale drew the chill night into her chest, harsh and metallic. Sweat slid down her temples, dripping along the line of her jaw. Her nostrils flared, smelling the damp fog, the faint iron tang of her own adrenaline, the distant scent of danger that had been present since Reverend Edmund told her of her sister condition.
As she ran, she began to pray.
“Holy Father, in moments of fear and uncertainty, grant us the courage to stand firm in our faith. Strengthen our hearts to face challenges with bravery and resilience. May Your spirit embolden us to pursue our dreams and confront our trials, knowing that with You by our side, we can overcome all obstacles.”
The prayer coursed through her with each step, her feet striking cobblestone, heels echoing in the empty streets. Her mind, however, was far from calm. Thoughts of her sister, of the Crown of Thorns, and of the still, pale forms waiting at the estate churned into a controlled, searing fury.
“Lord Jesus, we come before You seeking Your divine protection over our lives and loved ones. Surround us with Your angels and shield us from harm, fear, and negativity. Grant us strength and courage to face challenges, knowing that You are our refuge.”
The wind whipped against her, carrying the fog like an unearthly veil. She felt the estate’s presence long before she reached it, a pulse of unnatural order, of polished marble and lurking stillness, and it strengthened her resolve rather than diminished it.
“Lord Jesus, we come before You seeking Your divine guidance in our conflicts. Grant us the wisdom to find peaceful resolutions, the courage to listen, and the grace to forgive. May Your love illuminate our hearts, fostering understanding and harmony.”
Her mind’s prayers intertwined with thoughts of wrath. The sharp line between devotion and righteous fury blurred. She imagined the immortals who dared to touch her sister, the neat, pale doctor with eyes like ink, the predatory grace of Adelia Sinclair. They would not escape unmeasured judgment if harm had come to Cordelia.
Every breath was ragged. Every heartbeat hammered with the rhythm of holy wrath and desperate love. The estate’s gates rose before her, the flicker of gas lamps behind the heavy curtains illuminating the silhouettes of a household that defied nature itself.
Constance slowed only at the threshold, drawing a single, cleansing breath, palms pressed briefly together. The prayers had strengthened her, her courage bolstered by divine certainty. But her eyes, the eyes that had memorized every sign of unholy life, blazed with the fire of someone who would not hesitate to act if her sister’s blood had been spilled.
Marble steps gleamed under moonlight that refused to penetrate the house fully. Inside, she knew, lay precision and artifice; cleanliness taken to an almost religious extremity.
She did not knock. She entered as she always did, commanding by virtue of purpose alone. The hallways were quiet, too quiet, the silence heavy with an unspoken challenge. Gas lamps flickered low, throwing long shadows against walls polished to perfection. Her boots echoed in measured intervals.
At the end of the corridor, she found them.
Dr. Byron Gracewater. Tall, willowy, unnervingly still. Bone pale, the skin faintly luminescent beneath the dim light. A faint smell of antiseptic and laudanum clung to him, mingled with iron and something older, unplaceable.
Her sister sat at a marble washbasin, blood dotted the porcelain beneath her fingers. Puncture wounds lined her palms, bright and relentless. Her wrists and arms had flesh falling off. Her eyes took in her sister, seated with bloodied hands, punctures and abrasions bright in the dim lamplight.
In her own palm, the thorns biting faintly, she looked down to see the crown. Stuck in her own flesh.
She flexed her fingers around it, steady, unwavering. The weight grounded her, focused her mind. Cordelia had never seen it, never known it existed, but it was not for her sister’s knowledge. It was for protection. For judgment. For the assertion that no creature, mortal or immortal, could bring harm without consequence under her watch.
Adelia Sinclair and Dr. Byron Gracewater waited, unnervingly composed, unnervingly still. The estate was immaculate to the point of reverence, but it reeked of unholy order.
Constance whispered a prayer under her breath, each word as measured as her steps: “Holy Father, grant me the courage to stand unwavering. Shield my sister. Let my hands act as Your instrument, Your will made manifest.”
Cordelia’s gaze lifted briefly to her. Confusion, concern, but no fear. That was for Constance to bear.
Constance stepped closer, letting the weight of the Crown ground her resolve. Each thorn pressed lightly into her palm, a reminder that protection often demanded sacrifice. She did not flinch, did not hesitate. Faith and duty outweighed pain.
Her voice was calm, low, and measured, carrying through the polished stillness of the room. “Step back,” she said, eyes locked on the figures before her. “Do not touch her again.”
Adelia Sinclair inclined her head slightly, expression unreadable. “You arrive prepared, Sister Constance,” she said, voice silk over steel. “And yet, I assure you, Cordelia’s injuries are neither life-threatening nor irreversible.”
Dr. Gracewater’s dark eyes flicked briefly to the Crown, and then to Constance’s unwavering gaze. “We intend no harm,” he added, soft, precise, unnervingly calm.
Constance did not lower her hand.
“Intent is not measured by words,” she said. “It is measured by actions. And you shall act no further against her while I am here.”
Cordelia’s hands trembled faintly as she held the washbasin, blood pooling around her fingertips. Her gaze moved from Constance to the Crown, confusion mixing with exhaustion. She had never seen anything like it.
The stillness in the room deepened. Gracewater shifted, imperceptibly, like a shadow disturbed, but he did not advance. Adelia, for the first time, looked slightly uncertain, as though realizing that this human, bound by faith yet unflinching, was a force that could not simply be ignored.
Constance took a slow step toward her sister, careful not to jostle the washbasin, each movement precise and deliberate. “You will let me tend to her wounds,” she said, voice unwavering. “Now. Or there will be consequences you cannot measure with words, nor counter with patience.”
Cordelia, exhausted, whispered, “Constance…?”
“Yes,” Constance replied softly, her gaze never leaving the two immortals. “I am here. And I will not allow them to touch you again.”
“Let them touch me? Constance, I did this to myself.”
The words landed harder than any accusation.
Constance stilled. Her grip on the Crown tightened reflexively, the thorns biting deeper into her palm, a clean, grounding pain that kept her anchored in flesh and purpose.
Cordelia lifted her head fully now. Her face was pale, drawn, but her eyes were lucid. Steady. Annoyingly so. “No one restrained me. No one cut me. No one compelled me to stay when it hurt.” She swallowed, fingers whitening against the rim of the basin. “Whatever this is, it started before they touched me at all.”
Gracewater did not speak. That, in itself, was telling.
Adelia’s gaze sharpened, shifting subtly, not to Constance, but to Cordelia.
Constance took another step forward, lowering her voice. “Cordelia,” she said. “You are bleeding.”
“Yes,” Cordelia replied. “But I am not helpless.”
The word helpless struck something old and dangerous in Constance’s chest. Her jaw tightened. “You do not get to decide that alone,” she said, quietly fierce. “Not when you are hurt. Not when you are surrounded by-”
“She is correct about one thing,” Gracewater interupted, “The injuries are self-inflicted, but not by intent. There was no blade. No tool.” His gloved hands remained folded behind his back, deliberately visible. “Her skin reacted as if answering a stimulus that does not obey conventional causality.”
Constance’s eyes cut to him. “Do not dress mystery in academic language and call it mercy.”
A faint, almost rueful smile touched his mouth. “I wouldn’t dare.”
Cordelia exhaled shakily. “Constance… please.” Her voice softened. “I trust my scrambled mind enough to say this wasn’t an attack.”
Blood had slicked the thorns now, her blood, caught in the dark iron twists. It did not pain her.
She turned fully to Cordelia, finally dropping the Crown completly, in order to free her hand. Blood ran freely now down her palm, warm and real.
“I am here,” she repeated, softer than before. “To stand with you.”
Cordelia’s shoulders sagged, tension bleeding out of her. She nodded once.
Only then did Constance allow herself to kneel beside her sister, still between her and the immortals. Constance kept her body low, a living barrier, one hand hovering just above Cordelia’s trembling arms. She met her sister’s gaze, silently asking permission, silently offering safety. Cordelia nodded faintly, exhausted but lucid, and that small motion was enough.
“Let me see them,” Constance murmured, her fingers careful as she brushed stray hair from her sister’s face. She examined the abrasions and punctures with meticulous precision, her faith and discipline steadying her hand. The blood was real, yes, but there was no infection, no foreign toxin, no sign of malice beyond the strange, inexplicable pattern.
Adelia and Gracewater watched in silence, unnervingly still, their presence a muted threat that Constance tolerated only because her attention remained entirely on Cordelia. “No one will touch you without your voice,” she said firmly. “Not tonight. Not ever while I am here.”
Cordelia’s lips parted as if to speak, but she only exhaled, the tension in her shoulders easing fractionally. Constance’s hand moved with measured grace, cleaning and dressing the wounds with precision born of both knowledge and faith. Every movement was deliberate, a silent prayer in motion.
“Holy Father, grant my hands wisdom. Shield her, guide her, protect her from what she cannot yet see.”
The Crown of Thorns rested on the edge of the marble washbasin now, its dark iron soaked faintly with her blood. Its weight had been grounding, a reminder of duty and conviction, and even abandoned for the moment, its presence lingered, a subtle, almost imperceptible pulse, as if acknowledging her unwavering resolve.
Constance glanced up briefly at the two immortals. Their composure had not faltered, yet she could sense a subtle shift—an awareness that the human kneeling there was no ordinary obstacle. Here was a woman armed with faith, purpose, and unflinching certainty, and her proximity to Cordelia made her untouchable, untouchably resolute.
She returned her focus fully to her sister, gently tending the smaller, more superficial wounds first, moving with a rhythm that was both ritual and medicine. Each touch, each careful motion, reinforced the promise she had made aloud. No harm would come to Cordelia while Constance remained.
Cordelia’s eyes followed her sister’s movements, softening further, and for the first time since the accident, her breath seemed less labored, less burdened. Constance allowed herself a fleeting, quiet satisfaction, but she did not relax. Between the two immortals and the still, sterile perfection of the estate, danger lingered, always present, always waiting.
Constance worked quickly but deliberately, dabbing at the punctures with clean cloths, murmuring soft prayers as she went. The deeper abrasions on Cordelia’s wrists and forearms made her pause. She had seen injuries before, knife cuts, blunt trauma, burns, but these did not obey any pattern she recognized. The skin seemed to have torn itself, as though obeying some unseen instruction.
“Cordelia,” she said gently, keeping her voice calm, “can you tell me where it hurts most?”
Her sister’s head lolled slightly, her breath coming shallow and ragged. “Everywhere, it stings… but it’s not, it’s not like being cut,” Cordelia rasped. Her hands twitched, the blood slick and warm under Constance’s careful touch.
Constance’s eyes narrowed. She straightened slightly, not removing her hand from her sister’s arm but lifting her gaze to Dr. Gracewater. “You said, this reaction does not obey conventional causality,” she said, voice low but sharp. “Explain yourself.”
Gracewater’s dark eyes remained unnervingly calm, but there was a faint tightening around his mouth. “I told you what I know,” he said evenly. “Her skin reacted to stimuli outside typical parameters. There was no instrument. No blade. Nothing that could have caused this through natural means. She did not will it. And yet, the flesh responded.”
Constance’s brow furrowed. She had memorized every subtle cue of the unnatural breath that did not rise, blood that refused to clot, reflections that faltered, but this, this was new. Her knuckles whitened around the edge of the washbasin. “So you would have me believe,” she said slowly, measured, “that her body inflicted injury upon itself in obedience to… what? Tell me, Dr. Gracewater, what form of abomination defies both tool and intent, yet leaves ruin in its wake?”
Gracewater’s hands remained folded behind him, perfectly still. “I do not know,” he admitted. “I have seen such phenomena only rarely. It is as if her body recognized an invisible command, a stimulus beyond our perception. She was not conscious, yet the flesh obeyed.”
Constance’s chest tightened. Her prayers surged again, silent and furious. Every instinct screamed at her to shield her sister further, to act, to intervene in whatever dark calculus was unfolding. She glanced at Cordelia. Her sister’s eyes were fluttering closed now, the strain of pain and blood loss overwhelming her body.
“Cordelia!” Constance’s voice cut through the quiet. She shifted, holding her sister upright against her, pressing her cheek to her temple, whispering holy words against the rising tide of unconsciousness. “Stay with me. Holy Father, lend her strength, grant her endurance.”
Cordelia’s lips parted in a shallow sigh, her body trembling, her arms weakening. Constance tightened her hold, pressing her own energy, her own discipline into the frail human before her.
Gracewater stepped closer, no threat, only measured observation. “She will recover,” he said softly. “But this is a reaction we cannot explain fully. It is neither accident nor malice, yet it demands care.”
Constance’s gaze sharpened, unwavering. “Care,” she repeated, “is not enough. You speak in riddles while my sister bleeds. I demand an explanation that does not hide behind elegance or composure.”
Adelia Sinclair’s eyes flicked to Gracewater, then to Constance, a faint tension threading through her otherwise perfect composure. “You confront what you do not understand,” she said quietly. “Be cautious, Sister Constance. Not all forces bow to prayer, and not all injuries are mortal in the way you expect.”
Constance’s lips pressed into a thin line. Her faith was her weapon, her sister her charge, and she would not yield. “I bow only to God,” she said, voice steel beneath the gentleness for Cordelia. “And I will see her safe, regardless of what this… ‘stimulus’ is. Every inch of her, every drop of her blood, will be protected under my watch.”
Cordelia’s head lolled against Constance’s shoulder, a faint whimper escaping her lips. Constance tightened her hold, whispering prayers over her in a steady cadence, her eyes never leaving the two immortals. Something unnatural had claimed her sister’s flesh, and Constance would uncover it, or exact judgment upon those who failed to intervene.
The estate held its breath around them, immaculate, silent, and unnervingly still, as if waiting to see which force, the human conviction of Sister Constance or the ineffable strangeness of Cordelia’s injuries, would assert itself first.
Constance’s fingers lingered lightly against her sister’s forearm, tracing the irregular abrasions, the small, sharp punctures that seemed to form a pattern she could not name. Her mind raced, every lesson, every scripture, every observation of unnatural life recalled with surgical precision. These were not the marks of a tool. Not the bite of claws. Not even the subtle incision of some chemical agent. They were… deliberate, obedient, but to what?
“Cordelia,” she murmured, pressing a cloth to the worst of the punctures, “can you stay awake for me? Look at me. Just for a moment.”
Her sister’s eyelids fluttered weakly, pain and exhaustion pulling at her consciousness. “I… I’m trying,” she whispered, voice hoarse, trembling. Her hands twitched as if some invisible conductor tugged at her muscles, forcing spasms she did not command. They inched closer to her wrists before falling back down.
Constance’s jaw tightened. She lifted her gaze to Dr. Gracewater, forcing her voice to remain calm, though every fiber of her being burned with righteous demand. “Explain to me, doctor, what stimulus commands a body to rend itself without intent, without instrument, without malice, and yet obeys.”
Gracewater’s dark eyes met hers, unblinking, measured, but for the first time, Constance thought she saw a flicker of unease. “It is unprecedented,” he said slowly, choosing his words with care. “Her body is responding to… signals beyond our perception. There is no blade, no toxin, no magic we recognize. Yet the flesh answers a directive, an invisible command, if you will. She does not will it, yet it obeys.”
Constance’s fingers clenched around the washbasin edge. “An invisible command,” she repeated, teeth grit. “So my sister, my blood, my flesh, is answering something unseen. Something not natural. And you call this care?”
Gracewater’s lips tightened. “It is care in the sense that there is no malice. There is no external attack. But yes, her body reacts, and it demands attention.”
Cordelia’s head sagged further. Her breathing came in shallow, labored gasps. A tremor ran through her arms, jerking them slightly even as Constance held her steady. Constance’s heart clenched. The human body, fragile as it was, should not endure this, should not bend to invisible forces without protest.
“You see her fading,” Constance said, voice low, almost a hiss, her hands braced firmly on her sister’s arms. “And you stand there and speak in riddles. Tell me, Byron Gracewater, what is the nature of the command? Who sent it? Or is she… answering herself?”
The room shifted almost imperceptibly under the weight of her words. Adelia’s gaze sharpened, corners of her mouth tightening, as if warning Gracewater not to respond fully.
Gracewater inhaled slowly. “I do not know. It is a phenomenon I have observed in theory, never so vividly. The stimulus is neither conscious nor conventional. It may originate internally, or from forces we cannot perceive. But I assure you, Sister Constance, there is no intent to harm her further.”
Constance’s teeth pressed together. “Intent is meaningless to flesh obeying a hidden law.” Her voice grew harder, edged with unyielding authority. “If you know, if you see, if you even suspect what caused this, I will know. And you will speak it. Now.”
Constance pressed her cheek against her sister’s, murmuring a prayer, fingers moving lightly to stabilize the spasming limbs.
“Holy Father, strengthen her. Hold her in Your light. Let my hands be the shield she cannot raise herself.”
A subtle shiver ran through Cordelia’s body. Her eyes drifted closed, the strength to resist the strange, internal command slipping away. Constance tightened her hold, grounding her own energy in flesh, blood, and prayer.
Gracewater remained still, though his calmness no longer seemed benign. Constance’s gaze locked on him. “I will not allow her to obey anything that seeks to destroy her,” she said quietly, deadly in its conviction. “If this stimulus is unseen, unknown, or unnatural, then it will have to contend with me first. Do you understand?”
Gracewater’s face remained impassive, but there was a fraction of hesitation now.
“In the meusum today I asked her to look at this painting, after her an Mr.Winslow looked over it, she started to scratch at herself, quiet violently.” Adelia confessed. Constance’s head snapped toward Adelia, eyes narrowing. “Scratch at herself?” she repeated, voice low, sharp.
Her hands tightened around Cordelia’s trembling arms. “Violently… you mean she… mutilated herself in response to… a painting?”
Adelia inclined her head slightly, expression carefully neutral, though there was a flicker of unease in her gaze. “Yes. She did not cry out, nor did she speak. But the marks appeared almost instantly. It was as though her body reacted before her mind could even register pain.”
Constance’s breath hitched slightly, her mind racing through every possibility she had ever learned, every scripture and lesson on the unnatural and unholy. “And you… you did nothing?” she asked, voice tight, incredulous.
Adelia stepped closer, hands folded. “I was too late to intervene, I wasnt in the room with her. Only Mr. Winsow intervied to ensure she would not cause irreparable harm. But she cannot be stopped entirely. The stimulus obeys no conventional boundary, Sister Constance. She responds before she comprehends.”
Constance’s jaw clenched. Her fingers pressed lightly, but firmly, against Cordelia’s arms, grounding her. “So this is what you meant by ‘outside typical parameters.’ It is… instantaneous. Reflexive. Beyond reason or will.”
“Yes,” Gracewater said quietly. “It is a rare phenomenon. I have seen it in theory only, never with such clarity. The body obeys a directive it does not understand, yet it follows it with precision. There is no malice, yet destruction occurs.”
Cordelia whimpered softly, her eyelids flickering as consciousness threatened to slip entirely. Constance pressed her cheek to her sister’s temple, murmuring prayers through gritted teeth, each word a tether to the physical world.
“Holy Father,” she whispered, “do not let this invisible force claim her. Hold her in Your sight. Let my hands be her shield.”
Her gaze lifted again to Gracewater, unwavering. “You saw it. You knew it was happening. And you did… what? Observed. Explained it. Nothing more. I will not allow that in my presence again. If her body is being commanded, if this stimulus seeks to harm her, then I will stand between it and my sister. I will not yield.”
Adelia’s lips pressed together. She inclined her head slowly, almost deferentially. “Be careful, Sister Constance. This is… unprecedented. Forces do not always bow to faith or flesh alone.”
Constance did not flinch. Her hands were steady, her voice unwavering even as Cordelia’s body trembled beneath her, teetering on the edge of unconsciousness. “Then I will teach it to bow,” she said, deadly calm.
Cordelia’s eyelids drooped further. Her lips parted in a shallow, uneven breath. Constance shifted, bracing her fully, murmuring more prayers, her mind a fortress of focus. She would not, could not, allow this unknown, unseen command to claim her sister.
The estate was silent but for the soft, ragged breaths of Cordelia and the quiet mummered question leaving Sister Constance’s lips.
