The hallway of the East Wing was dimly lit. Lady Beatrice Croft walked slowly, her cane tapping against the floor, until she saw him.
Malcolm Fotheringham stood by the portrait gallery, looking up at a painting of William’s father.
Beatrice stopped. Her hands, usually steady with iron control, began to tremble. She knew the timeline. She knew the secrets buried in the family archives.
“Did he send you?” Beatrice rasped, her voice barely a whisper.
Malcolm turned slowly. The shadows cut across his face, making him look even more like the grandson she had raised, yet utterly alien. He didn’t ask who “he” was. He didn’t feign ignorance.
He simply offered a cryptic, chilling smile that didn’t reach his eyes–the smile of a predator who knows the prey is trapped.
“I think we have a lot to discuss, Grandmother,” Malcolm said softly.
Beatrice gripped her cane, the blood draining from her face as she realized the “Seed” had not just returned; he had come to harvest the rot she had hidden for decades.