Chapter 261: Chapter Two Hundred And Sixty One
The first thing Eric became aware of was the light. Soft, golden sunlight streamed through the tall windows, painting stripes across the wooden floor. The second thing was the sound of birds chirping just outside, a relentless but cheerful chorus announcing the start of a new day. He felt a profound sense of peace, something that had been absent from his life for far too long.
He smiled before he even opened his eyes. Delia was curled up against him, her head resting on his outstretched arm as if it were a pillow made just for her. Her back was pressed against his front, and he could feel the gentle rhythm of her breathing. Carefully, so as not to wake her, he used his free hand to pull her even closer. Her soft body settled against his chest, a perfect fit.
A soft giggle escaped her, and he realized she was already awake. He rested his nose against the warm skin of her neck, just below her ear, and inhaled deeply. She smelled of lavender and the faint, musky scent of their lovemaking from the night before. It was the most wonderful smell in the world. He let out a long, contented sigh. A wide, genuine smile spread across his face, one that reached his eyes. This was right. This was how it was always meant to be.
Delia shifted slightly, turning her head to look back at him. She then looked down at her own wrist, which was resting near his on the white sheets. Her gaze was fixed on the tattoo of a rose that sat her wrist, and then on the matching one on his.
"You know, right?" she said, her voice quiet and a little sad. "The petals are fewer now."
Eric’s smile faltered. His eyes followed her gaze to the tattoos. On both of their tattoos, a few of the outer petals were gone, as if they had simply vanished, leaving the image looking slightly smaller, slightly less whole. A cold feeling started to creep into his heart, chasing away the morning’s warmth.
He brought his hand to her wrist, holding it gently. His thumb began to stroke the tattoo, tracing the outline of the remaining petals.
Delia’s voice was soft and sad when she spoke again. "What does it mean, Eric? What do you think will happen when the last petal falls?"
The question hung in the air between them, heavy and unwelcome. Eric leaned in and gave her neck a soft, lingering kiss, trying to offer a comfort he did not feel himself. "I don’t know," he answered honestly. He truly had no idea, and the not knowing scared him more than anything.
She turned fully in his arms to face him, her beautiful blue eyes searching his. He held her closer, wrapping his arms securely around her, as if he could protect her from whatever this strange fate was.
"There’s somewhere I want us to go today," she said, her expression serious.
"Hmmm?" Eric replied, his mind still on the fading tattoos. "Where?"
Delia leaned in and kissed him on the lips. It was a soft, tender kiss filled with unspoken emotions. "You will know soon enough," she murmured against his mouth. "But first, we need to go home. This rustic little cabin is not the Duke’s main residence. It’s beneath the status of a duke and the new head of the Carson family." A small, teasing smile played on her lips. "Besides, I prefer making love to you in your own very large, very comfortable bed."
Eric felt a wave of love for her wash over him. Even when faced with something so frightening, she could still be his Delia. He kissed her forehead gently and nodded his head. "Yes," he said, his voice firm. "Let’s go home."
~ ••••• ~
Hours later, they sat in a small, dimly lit parlor in a part of the city Eric rarely visited.
Heavy velvet curtains were drawn tight against the afternoon sun, trapping shadows in the corners of the room. The air was thick with the sweet, heavy scent of sandalwood incense that tickled Eric’s nose. They sat opposite an old woman at a small, round table covered in a dark, embroidered cloth. Cards, strange stones, and other mysterious objects were placed neatly on its surface.
Eric’s eyes moved around the place, taking in the strange tapestries on the walls and the shelves packed with dusty books and glass jars. He felt out of place in his formal attire.
"Do you remember me?" Delia asked the old woman, her voice steady despite the nervousness Eric could feel radiating from her. "I came here with the dowager duchess, my grandmother-in-law, months ago."
The palm reader nodded her head slowly. "Of course," she said, her voice raspy, like dry leaves skittering across pavement. She turned her unnerving gaze to Eric, who immediately stopped looking around the room and met her eyes. "You must be the dowager duchess’s grandson."
Eric managed a small, polite smile. "Oh, yes. I am."
The palm reader folded her hands on the table. "So," she asked, her gaze shifting between the two of them. "What do you two want to know?"
Eric and Delia looked at each other for a long moment. It was a silent conversation. Are we really doing this? Are we ready to hear what she has to say? Eric gave her a tiny nod of encouragement. She then turned back to the palm reader, her hands twisting in her lap.
"I don’t know how to explain it properly," Delia began, choosing her words carefully. "We have these... marks. We feel that we don’t have much time to live. It’s a strange feeling, but we both share it. We need to know... if we want to get through this, unharmed, what do we have to do?"
The palm reader stared at them for a long time. Her expression was unreadable. She then began to speak in a strange, melodic language that Delia didn’t understand. The words were strange and carried a power that made the hairs on Eric’s arms stand up. After a moment, she stopped and held out her bony hands.
"Let me see your palms," she commanded softly.
Delia went first, placing her hand in the old woman’s. The reader’s fingers were surprisingly cool as they traced the lines on Delia’s palm. She hummed to herself, her eyes closed in concentration. Then, she took Eric’s hand and did the same.
Finally, she opened her eyes and looked at them with a deep, profound sadness.
"Only one should be dead," she said, her voice low and serious. "But two died."
Eric frowned, completely lost. "I don’t understand," he said, shaking his head. What did she mean, one should be dead?
The palm reader leaned forward, her dark eyes pinning them both in place. "Fate is a river. It has a set course," she explained. "In your two previous lifetimes, only one of you was fated to die. The river was meant to claim only one soul at the appointed time."
She looked pointedly from one to the other, as if trying to discern which was which.
"But the other one," she continued, "kept defying the order. When the river of fate came for the one, the other jumped in as well, refusing to be parted. You kept joining in the death, a choice made out of love that disrupted the grand design."
"This defiance has caused a disruption," the palm reader continued, her voice dropping to a whisper. "It has forced you both to be reborn, to try again. But this last chance is a warning. That’s why you two have those tattoos. They are not just marks; they are timers. They are a physical sign of the life you have left together. When the last petal falls, your time is up. And this time, there will be no more chances. Unless..."