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It had only been a heartbeat, or so it seemed, since Ethel's sudden arrival had yanked Ernest from the depths of his gloomy meditations. Yet in those fleeting three hours, their love had bloomed with the urgency of a tempest, each minute stretching and swelling till it felt like a whole year had been lived and loved within its confines. Color had crept back into his once ashen cheeks, and the anxious shadows that flickered in his eyes had dissipated like mist. Ethel's very essence worked like an elixir, igniting the spark that had dimmed in his gaze - giving him newfound vigor to stand against the looming specter of Reginald Clarke. The naive boy within him was replaced by a determined man, shrouded in an amour of love's making. Surrender was not an option, and Ethel's belief in him was unwavering; she knew he could be entrusted with his own destiny.
Yet as love fortified him, caution whispered warnings he could not ignore. She pressed on, trying to persuade him one last time to flee the ominous abode with her immediately.
"Time's up," she uttered with grave concern. "Won't you reconsider? Leave this place with me? The thought of you staying behind chills my bones."
He shook his head, resolute. "I can't abandon my post now - there's a mystery entwined around this man I need to unravel. If this Clarke is the demon he appears to be, then I'm hell-bent on reclaiming what he robbed from me - my novel yet to see daylight."
"Don't face him head-on," she warned. "His influence is too strong to counter."
"Rest easy," he soothed her fears. "I've seen too much beauty in these last few hours - too much worth fighting for - and I won't throw it away recklessly. But I need proof tangible as stones before I can leave: evidence that will sentence or absolve him."
"What will you do?" Panic edged her voice.
"As for my play...it's gone; that ship has sailed," he admitted with a tinge of defeat. "It echoed across his salon and echoes still through the halls prepping for publication. But even if you and I are certain of his dark gift, we'd be dismissed as lunatics if we cried wolf without evidence."
"We're not insane." Her voice was firm.
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"Insane or not," he said, "there’s no logic in my lingering any longer than necessary. Give me a week - that's all I ask for. By then I'll have something concrete: a clue or an exoneration."
The earnestness in his declaration was evident: no mere house of secrets could hold him much longer than he wielded weaponized resolve—both fueled and shielded by their entwined hearts.
“What’s your plan?”
He looked at his desk, a heavy, solid thing, as much a part of him as his own thoughts—
A sharp intake of breath.
“Yes,” he broke the silence. “Maybe there’s a clue hiding among these papers, something overlooked, some piece of truth...”
“It’s playing with fire.”
“But it's a fire that could light up fortunes for me.”
She bit her lip, “I hate leaving you alone with this. Isn't there someone—a confidant you can trust to navigate these treacherous waters?”
He pondered for a moment, “Well, there’s Jack.”
A dark flicker of doubt crossed her expression.
“You know,” she hesitated, “sometimes I think you hold him in higher esteem than me?”
“That’s absurd,” he brushed off her concern lightly. “He’s my ally, a brother in arms. But you - you’re my world.”
“And is your brotherhood as unbreakable as it was when I first saw you together?”
His eyes clouded slightly; “Recently it feels like a fog has settled between us—subtle but irksome. Nevertheless, if I beckon, he’ll appear. He won’t let me down when the chips are down.”
“How soon can we expect him?”
“A matter of days—no more than three.”
“And until then? Promise me caution; our enemy lurks in every shadow. And please—” she added firmly, “keep your door locked at night.”
I'd take extra precautions, going beyond just locking the door—I'd fortify it. I'm set to unravel this enigma with every ounce of my being, yet I'll steer clear of throwing myself into danger unnecessarily.
"I must depart now. Grant me a farewell kiss."
"Shall I accompany you to your automobile?"
"It's wiser if you don't."
Pausing at the threshold, she glanced back. "Either pen me a letter daily or reach out through the phone."
He puffed up his chest, an attempt to broadcast his resilience to her. But as the door snapped shut and he was left alone, his resolve wavered momentarily. Had it not been for his pride, and not wanting to seem feeble in front of his beloved, it's doubtful any force could have anchored him in that eerie dwelling, where secrets seemed to ooze from every crevice!
The woman harbored her own unease as she abandoned the young man—now vulnerable to that arcane force that has shaped destinaries, crafting and dismantling the lives of rulers, seers, and bards through time.
Boarding a streetcar, her gaze fell upon an image of Reginald Clarke materializing in the distance like some foreboding apparition—his face so pallid and starved of warmth. Its expression bore no hint of compassion but thrummed with malice and scorn.
"Be wary in the interim. And ensure your door is securely locked come nightfall."