4141.223 · August 11, 1821 AD
The Truth She Guards
Madelyn sits composed on a pale blue damask, shadows beneath her eyes, holding something within herself that requires constant vigilance to restrain. She speaks of William's fear and guilt, of strange books with symbols that made her head ache, of messengers arriving after dark. But beneath the careful grief, Broadmoor senses something else. She tells him truth—but not all of it. She guides him toward conclusions whilst steering him away from others.
The drawing room's walls feel closer than yesterday, pressing in with accumulated secrets. Madelyn sits rigid beside Victoria, pale in dark grey wool, containing something that might shatter if she relaxed. Broadmoor watches for flickers beneath the composed surface.
She describes William's transformation: weeks of weight bearing down, eyes that spoke fear and guilt, hours pacing corridors whilst she pretended sleep. Strange books appeared in his study—old volumes with cracked bindings, text in no language she recognised, symbols that resisted being looked upon. Once she asked about them. William became angrier than she'd ever seen, then wept and begged forgiveness.
Letters arrived at odd hours, delivered by messengers to the servants' entrance. After dark. William would take them to his study and not emerge for hours. Each one drained something from him, deepened the terrible weight.
The final night: dinner where he couldn't eat, eyes moving to windows as though expecting something in darkness. He excused himself to attend correspondence. Never came to bed. Morning revealed him gone—as though he'd simply ceased to exist.
After Broadmoor leaves, Madelyn tells Victoria: "There are things William told me. Things that would sound like madness. A payment coming due for debts I cannot fathom."
Some truths would destroy you to hear.
