Chapter 262: Chapter Two Hundred And Sixty Two
"Unless..."
The connection was cut. The palm reader’s words hung in the dim, incense-thick air of the parlor, a revelation so profound it seemed to steal the very breath from their lungs.
Delia and Eric stared at each other, their hands still resting in the old woman’s cool, dry grasp. The idea that one of them had willingly followed the other into death, disrupting the very fabric of fate, was a truth too immense to comprehend.
It was Eric who broke the heavy silence. His voice was tight, his question born from a place of desperate fear. He was already calculating, trying to find a way to protect her, even if it meant sacrificing himself. "If one of us were to die," he interrupted the quiet, his other hand tightening around Delia’s, "would the other one live?"
"Eric!" Delia cried, her voice a sharp, pained whisper. She looked at him, her eyes wide with shock and hurt. How could he even think of a future that didn’t include them both?
The old palm reader let out a dry, rattling laugh. It wasn’t a sound of amusement, but of ancient wisdom watching mortals tie themselves in knots. "You should be thinking of a way to stay alive together," she chided gently, her dark eyes twinkling in the gloom. "Why did you jump to one of you dying first? You are looking at the problem all wrong."
A flicker of hope ignited in Eric’s chest, chasing away the shadows of his fear. His face lit up. "Do you mean there’s a way?" he asked, leaning forward eagerly. "A way we can both stay alive together?"
The palm reader’s expression became unreadable once more. "I am not sure," she admitted, her voice dropping back into its raspy, mysterious tone. "The fates know better than me about what happens six feet under. Their designs are far too vast for me to see in its entirety. There’s no way we can know their true intentions—if both of you will die, if one of you will die, or if none of you will die."
She paused, looking from one to the other, her gaze seeming to weigh their souls. "But if I were you," she said, her voice softening with what sounded like genuine advice, "I would stop being afraid. Fear is a cage of your own making. Follow the fates’ will. They have given you this time back for a reason. Use it to live well. Live your lives to the fullest. Love each other without reservation. That is all I can say."
Her words, though ambiguous, felt like a release. It was not a solution, but it was a path forward. Eric and Delia stood up, their hands still linked. They thanked the old woman, leaving a heavy pouch of coins on the table, and walked out of the dim, smoky parlor, back into the bright, clear light of the afternoon.
Mr. Rye was waiting patiently by the carriage. The moment he saw them emerge, he got down from the driver’s box, his movements efficient and respectful. He opened the heavy carriage door and helped Delia in. Eric followed, and soon the carriage began to move, the rhythmic clatter of the horse’s hooves a steady, comforting sound.
Inside, Delia immediately leaned against Eric, resting her head on his chest. He wrapped an arm around her, his hand patting her back in a slow, soothing rhythm. She could feel the steady beat of his heart beneath her ear, a sound that was more reassuring than any words could be. They were together. They were alive.
"Let’s do what she said," Delia murmured against the fine wool of his coat. "That’s all we can do anyway. Stop being afraid. Living every day to its fullest."
Eric rested his chin on the top of her head, inhaling the soft scent of her hair. "You’re right," he replied, his voice a low rumble. He felt a sense of peace settle over him, a clarity he hadn’t felt in a long time. Their future was uncertain, but their present was here, in this carriage, in each other’s arms. "Let’s go to the modiste."
Delia sat back up, looking at him with a confused but curious expression. "What for?"
A playful smile touched Eric’s lips. He gently tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering on her skin. "There’s a ball at the Carson mansion," he whispered, his lips close to her ear. He let them brush against the delicate shell, a soft nibble sending a shiver through her. "... in my honor."
"I have dozens of dresses at home," Delia replied, though her breath had quickened at his touch. "There’s really no need."
"No," Eric said, his voice a low, intimate murmur. "There’s every need when it comes to you. You need to shine brighter than anyone else. You need to be by my side, not just as my wife, but as my Duchess." He leaned in and kissed her on the forehead, a long, tender press of his lips against her skin. "And after the ball," he added, his eyes sparkling with a new promise, "we will go and bring Owen home."
Delia’s face lit up, a brilliant, genuine smile erasing the last traces of fear and sadness. "Really?" she asked, her voice full of a joy that was almost overwhelming.
Eric nodded, his own happiness reflected in her eyes. "Of course. We won. It’s safe for him to come back now." He took her hands in his. "We will also need to hire some more staff. A proper butler, more maids..."
"Are you sure?" she asked, still a little breathless.
"We’re about to be a family," he said, his voice full of a quiet, certain joy. "We need all the extra hands we can get."
Overcome with happiness, Delia leaned forward and gave him a quick, firm kiss on the lips. "As you wish, Your Grace," she said, her old, formal words now filled with a new, loving playfulness.
Eric smiled and kissed her back, a longer, deeper kiss this time, a seal on their new promise to each other. A promise to live, to love, and to build a future, no matter how many days they were given.