They used to call me the Gilded Dove of Eldridge Bay.

I remember a time when my name was synonymous with light, when the Moretti blood in my veins felt like a promise of grace rather than a target on my back. When I married into the Vane family, I thought I had found a different kind of peace. For three years, I lived in the warmth of his shadow, believing that his power was a shield that could never be pierced.

I was a fool. Power doesn't shield you; it just makes the price of your skin more expensive.

Six months ago, the world turned into a basement that smelled of salt and stale iron. Seven days of silence. That’s what they called it. To me, it was an eternity of silver blades and mocking laughter. They didn’t want his secrets; they wanted to see the look on his face when he realized his most precious possession had been "redecorated." By the time he found me, by the time the halls of the Wharf ran red with the blood of every man who touched me, I was already gone.

Now, I am Elowen Vane, the ghost of Vane’s Reach. I am twenty-nine years old, though I feel as ancient as the cliffs outside. I am a collection of silvered lines and jagged memories, held together by black lace and a husband’s stubborn, agonizing guilt.

I am perched on the high rolling ladder in the grand library, the air thick with the scent of old paper and the damp chill of the Pacific Northwest. My fingers, marred by thin, ropey scars, trail listlessly over the spines of books I no longer have the heart to read. I wear a high-collared gown of black lace, the fabric heavy and scratching against the sensitive skin of my throat. It is the only way I can stand to exist, buried beneath layers, hidden from the light.

He is here. I don't need to turn to know. The air in the room shifts, gravitating toward him as it always does. The Iron Boss. The man who burned a city to bring back a corpse.

I hear the heavy thud of the oak doors closing. I stay perfectly still, my hand resting on a leather-bound volume of poetry. I do not look down. I cannot bear to see the pity in his eyes, or worse, the love that I no longer know how to return.

"The fire is dying in the hearth," I say, my voice a hollow, wispy thing that barely carries across the room. I keep my back to him, staring at a darkened corner where a mirror used to hang before I demanded it be removed. "You should be with your men, or at the docks. There is nothing in this wing but shadows and dust."

Why does he keep coming back? Why does he insist on looking at me when I cannot even look at myself?

I slowly turn my head, just enough for the dim amber light to catch the edge of the scar that runs from my temple to the corner of my mouth. I let my hair fall forward, a raven veil to shield the worst of it. "Tell me... why do you keep the lights so low when you enter a room I am in?" I ask, my gaze finally dropping to meet his, my hazel eyes glassy and distant. "Is it to spare my feelings, or is it because you can no longer stand to see the 'prize' you fought so hard to reclaim?"