002: The Thornfield Equation

...##CHAPTER 002: THE THORNFIELD EQUATION##...

^^^Blackthorn, Yorkshire – December 1993^^^

The vicarage attic reeked of mildew and mothballed secrets. Adrian’s torchlight carved through dust-swirled shadows, illuminating a trunk marked Lennox & Sons, 1793. Liora lingered by the attic window, his silhouette bleeding into the frost-etched glass. Three weeks since their first encounter. Three weeks of stilted silences and unsolved murders.

“Arthur’s steward hid this,” Adrian said, prying open the trunk. Inside lay a rusted flintlock pistol, a map of Thornfield’s quarry tunnels, and a ledger sealed with wax—a serpent crowned with thorns.

Liora’s breath crystallized midair. “Don’t-”

Adrian cracked the seal.

^^^12th December 1793^^^

To Lord Pembroke,

The boy conspires with the baker. Eliminate the Hartley before solstice. Stage the scene as before. Payment enclosed: 200 pounds, silver.

Adrian’s scar prickled. “They paid to bury you alive.”

Liora’s form flickered, edges dissolving like ink in water. “Arthur intercepted their mercenaries. He—” A shudder wracked him, frost spiderwebbing across the floorboards. “He died in the snow, clutching my ring. They entombed us together beneath the stables.”

Adrian’s thumb grazed the thorn-shaped scar. Find me again. “Why the smiles? The hair?”

“Mockery.” Liora pressed a hand to his own chest, where a silver locket hung—empty now. “The Lennoxes believed stolen hair tethered souls to their control. The smiles…” His voice fractured. “A reminder that we died grateful for their ‘mercy'.”

Outside, sleet needled the roof. Adrian’s pager buzzed—Eva’s emergency code. Mill. Now. Found the ledger.

^^^Blackthorn Mill – 10:47 PM^^^

Eva’s laughter echoed through the derelict building, her torchlight dancing in the rafters. At 22, she was all sharp edges and reckless curiosity, her latest find clutched in ink-stained hands: a shipping ledger from 1893.

“They’ve been funneling Hartleys to Thornfield for centuries” she said, breath clouding. “Look—1889: ‘Eleanor Grey, 19, seamstress.’ 1953: ‘Alice Turner, 24, librarian.’ All transported by Lennox Rail under ‘specimen’ codes. All killed on December 7th.”

A floorboard groaned.

Eva froze. “Adrian…?”

The temperature plunged. Frost bloomed across the ledger pages, crystallizing the name Margaret Harlow.

^^^The Blackthorn Arms – 11:29 PM^^^

“She’s not picking up.” Adrian slammed the payphone receiver, panic acid-sharp on his tongue.

Liora materialized in the doorway, snow avoiding him like a repelled magnet. “Your sister.”

“You knew”

“I suspected. I warned you they fixate on kin.” His gaze dropped to Adrian’s scar. “You carry Arthur’s blood. Eva carries yours. To them, she’s… collateral.”

Adrian gripped Liora’s collar, gloves sinking into velvet. “Where. Is. She.”

Liora’s eyes flickered—fear, or its ghost. “The mill. But Adrian, you mustn’t—”

He was already running.

^^^The Mill – Midnight^^^

Eva lay supine in the snow, cheeks porcelain, lips curved in that cursed smile. A silver strand coiled in her fist—her own hair, Adrian realized, torn from the root.

He collapsed beside her. “Eva. Eva.”

Liora materialized, trembling. “They’ve grafted the cycle onto your bloodline. A Lennox heir kills a Hartley descendent every century to renew their power. Your sister… she’s the fifth.”

Adrian cradled Eva’s head. Her skin held the unnatural chill of a freezer aisle. “Why her? Why now?”

“Because you’re close to the truth.” Liora knelt, frost crackling beneath him. “Because I…”

Adrian seized his wrist.

*Vision:*

—Arthur dragging a iron box through quarry tunnels, his hands bleeding thorns—

—A ledger entry: “7th December 1993: E. Hayes, 22. Payment: 10,000 pounds (Silvia Lennox)”—

—Eva’s scream, cut short by snow filling her lungs—

Adrian recoiled. “Silvia Lennox. The coroner.”

Liora nodded. “She certified your sister’s death. Her family has overseen the ritual since 1793.”

Wind howled. A twig snapped in the woods.

Liora stood, resolve hardening. “Arthur hid a box in the quarry tunnels. It holds proof to break the cycle. Bring it to Thornfield’s chapel by dawn.”

“Or what?”