Chapter 69:


    She walked away without looking back, her footsteps echoing on the parquet floor.


    Inside the guest room, the air was cool and still. Effie was curled up in the center of the massive four-poster bed, clutching her teddy bear, her breathing a soft, rhythmic whistle.


    Isolde sat on the edge of the bed. She opened the diary again, tilting it toward the moonlight pouring through the window.


    She turned to the veryst page. Tucked into the binding was a folded piece of onionskin paper. Isolde unfolded it carefully.


    It was a hand-drawn sketch. A mechanical tail assembly. The geometry wasplex, aggressive.


    Isolde’s heart hammered against her ribs. The angle of the stabilizers. The intake curve. It wasn’t identical to the Phoenix-X7, but the underlying aerodynamic principles — the mathematical soul of the design — were the same. It was like finding a foundational theorem that she had, decadester, unknowingly proven. Her grandmother hadn’t just flown nes. She had been dreaming of breaking the sky.


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    The doorknob rattled.


    Isolde shoved the diary under her pillow in one fluid motion.


    The rattle became a jiggle, then a pound. The door didn’t budge. She had engaged the deadbolt the moment she entered.


    “Isolde.” Grayson’s voice came through muffled but sharp. “Open the door. We need to talk about Belle. She’s upset that you’re here.”


    Isolde stared at the wood, her face devoid of expression. “Go away, Grayson. Or I call security.”


    “This is my house!”


    “And I am the guest,” she replied. “Beatrice’s guest.”


    A heavy silence followed. Then the dull thud of a fist against the door, once, and the sound of retreating footsteps.


    Isoldey down beside Effie and pulled the duvet up to her chin. She stared at the dark ceiling, one hand resting on the pillow concealing the diary.


    She wasn’t alone anymore. She had the ghosts of the past on her side.


    Morning light filtered through the heavy velvet drapes, casting long, dusty beams across the room. Isolde woke to a sharp rap on the door.


    “Breakfast, ma’am,” Mrs. Higgins called out. “Madam Beatrice is waiting.”


    Isolde sat up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Effie was already awake, sitting cross-legged at the foot of the bed, counting the patterns in the rug.


    “Twenty-four diamonds,” Effie whispered. “Twelve red, twelve gold.”


    Isolde smiled, though it didn’t reach her eyes. She dressed Effie in a soft navy dress and smoothed the cor.


    “Listen to me,” Isolde said, kneeling to meet Effie’s gaze. “Downstairs, Daddy might try to talk to you. If you don’t want to talk, you don’t have to. You are the boss of your voice. Okay?”


    Effie nodded solemnly. “Okay.”


    They descended the grand staircase. The dining room was bright, the morning sun ncing off the silver service.


    Grayson was already seated, wearing a casual polo shirt that looked brand new, his hair perfectly arranged. He held a newspaper, but he wasn’t reading it. The moment they entered, he lowered the paper and shed a smile so bright it looked painful.


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