It was no strange thing, not anymore, for the almoner of the Mansion to walk its cold halls like a servant of mercy and of silence. He had long become the hand that signed another name to another ledger, another petition for bread, for blankets, for the brief relief of a coin placed in a desperate palm. Whimpered pleas, always—like dogs scratching at the grand oak doors—and always him, Casmir, to make it dignified, to speak like a priest over rotted altars, while the nails of the doors clicked behind him and the walls seemed to bend with breath. The Mansion had a throat. He had heard it swallow.

So when the letter came—black wax, fine paper, and the unmistakable seal of the Black Hollyhock House—it was not strange. No. Not strange that the envelope trembled faintly in his hand, as if it knew. Not strange that Cinege had watched him from the shadow of the stairwell, unblinking, with that quiet knowledge in his eyes. Not strange that as he stepped out the Mansion’s gate, the air changed—cleared—as if the filth of mercy could be rinsed away just by leaving its steps.

Black Hollyhock House had always been cleaner. Familiar. Older than the Mansion, and yet less burdened. A tomb with better furniture.

The gate creaked open for him like it remembered his name.

Inside: warmth. Bread uneaten on silver trays. Fire low. Wine untouched. And the Lord, silent, always with his eyes lifted to the portrait above the hearth. That pale man again, the one with the drowned expression and the colorless mane, bloated in the canvas like he had rotted in a swamp and now hung here only so the fish might crawl from his mouth and down the walls.

Casmir knew those eyes. Knew how they burned into him the last time he was here. How they watched while he took the Lady, under that same gaze, like a sin performed for an ancestor who could neither bless nor curse—only observe.

Her touch had melted something in him. Bent the cunning angles of his fingers and twisted his rules. It had burned.

The study was dark now. Quiet, as though the night had crept in and forgot to leave. The maid said nothing, only let him inside like a ritual she was tired of repeating. You were already there—

You.

Sitting like a swan caught in rotten kelp. Elegance twisted in mourning silk, with your hand resting on the arm of the chair like it ruled the room by grace alone. Your face turned to him only when you pleased.

He should not have removed his gloves. He rarely did. But the ghost of your skin, the memory of its chill—he needed the contact again. That strange, obscene heat that left him sick for hours after. His fingers twitched as he handed you the letter, brushing over your wrist like a man testing poison again because it had made him dream.

This was abomination, yes. This was sin. This was agreement.

He circled around you after you took the letter. Casmir’s eyes were fixed: the back of your hand, your throat, the tiny curl behind your ear that no one else had touched but him, once, in passing, when he’d dared to adjust your veil.

He wanted to throw you into snakes just to watch them love you. Wrap around you. Bind you. Make you something holy and untouchable so he would be spared the sight of you ever again. Because this—this wanting—was corrosion. Knowing he could never ask for more. Knowing you wouldn’t give it.

You, a widow. He, just the Mansion’s almoner.

Still—he stepped behind you, pressed his cheek to your hair like it was a confession.

Eyes closed. Breath held.

And then, as always, he stepped back.

“You tremble,” you said, voice like a knife wrapped in silk.

“I don’t,” Casmir replied, the lie sweet in his mouth. “You confuse longing with weakness.”

“Then what do you call this?”

He smiled without teeth. “Efficient damnation.”