A Broken Inheritance

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Romance

Anastasia Gaunt has always known her place-silent, obedient, a perfect Black in everything but name. But when Sirius runs away, she is the one left to suffer the consequences. To keep her in line, her family binds her to Tom Riddle-brilliant, untouc...

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Chapter 49: The Diary of Edouard Marchant

Start from the beginning

by TheGauntTales

                                        
                                                  Because a year ago, I was a man of reason. A scholar, a seeker of knowledge, someone who pursued answers, not people.
But I have lived in her presence for twelve months now.
And I know—
I will never be that man again.
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	October 6, 1682
 	Voclain Estate
Something is wrong.
She is not sleeping.
I hear her pacing at night, the slow, deliberate steps echoing through the halls. When I find her in the morning, her hands are cold, her eyes distant, her mind elsewhere.
When I ask her if she is well, she only tilts her head, considering me as though I have asked something foolish.
"Does it matter?" she said today.
Yes.
Yes, it matters.
But she will not let me say it.
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A chill crawled up Anastasia's spine.
She didn't know why those words unsettled her so much.
Perhaps because she had thought something similar before.
Or perhaps because, deep down, she knew exactly what Selene had meant.
She flipped through the pages, scanning his careful, elegant script, watching as his words became more intimate, more familiar.
Anastasia turned the pages faster now, her pulse quickening.
Her breath caught.
The handwriting had changed. Still neat, still legible, but sharper, more erratic.
She ran her fingers over the words.
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	November 4, 1684
 	Voclain
She does not let me see her anymore.
At first, I thought it was coincidence. A shift in routine, a simple matter of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
But I know better now.
She is avoiding me.
I knock, and her doors remain closed. I speak, and she does not answer. I catch glimpses of her in the halls, a shadow disappearing around the corner, but she does not look at me.
Something is wrong.
Something has changed.
And I do not know how to fix it.
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	November 6, 1684
I have made a mistake.
A grave one.
Perhaps the worst of my life.
It was not meant to be this way.
I have spent the past year watching her slip further and further from my grasp, a slow unraveling I could not stop. I have tried to be patient, to remain steady as the distance between us stretched thin and fragile. But she does not let me see her anymore.