Chapter Fifteen
ELODIE
After I left the meeting room behind, I roamed through the manor trying to find the great library Alistair had mentioned. Most of all, I hoped to search for the Tome of Fates there, but I also would love to get a hold of a Latin dictionary.
Unfortunately, the hallways were empty—no staff in sight, likely busy tending to Lilian’s guests—and there was no sign of the library either, as far as I could tell.
Every corridor seemed to stretch longer than before, twisting at strange angles.
I could’ve sworn I’d passed the same arched window twice now, without ever turning back.
The doors were no better. Each one had a story, a tale, edged into their wood, desperate to be told. Yet when I tried to open them, they spoke none. Their locks were unwavering, as if the manor itself had decided it didn’t want me finding what I was looking for.
I thought back to Lilian’s strange set of keys—the beetles, the bones, the clocks etched into the old silver—and realised the carvings on the doors probably matched them.
Just like my moth-lived door and key, there were others: bears and lambs, foxgloves and constellations, all engraved into the wood.
I was sure Lilian had their pairs resting quietly in her pocket.
I shouldn’t have been surprised. Thornhill had carried a kind of captivating dread ever since the day I arrived.
The manor was silent as I walked down the stairs, but it felt like it was listening.
I tried one last door, and to my surprise, it was open.
Stepping inside, I inhaled the sweet, heavy scent that lingered in the air.
The light from outside filtered through stained-glass windows, casting coloured shadows across the floor.
In the centre stood a kitchen island crowded with pots, steam curling softly into the air.
From the far side of the kitchen, hidden behind shelves, I heard a familiar melody float through the air.
A song I hadn’t heard in a very long time.
It came softly at first, drifting through the steam like a memory half-remembered.
The melody clung to the air, as if it had been waiting in the walls this entire time.
My pulse quickened. I took a careful step closer. It couldn’t be her again, could it? I pinched the skin on my forearm until it burned, and then flinched. I wasn’t asleep.
“Mum?” It slipped out like a breath I didn’t mean to take.
From behind the kitchen island, brown curls bobbed into view—Myra turned around with a steaming plate in her hands.
“Elodie,” she said with a warm smile, her gaze landing on me.
I closed my eyes briefly, disappointment crashing through me in small waves. I could’ve sworn—my fingers brushed over the tattered cover of my mum’s book, still clutched to my chest.
Myra set the tray down and gestured to a plate of muffins. “Fancy one?” she asked, her braces flashing as her smile brightened.
I hesitated, glancing back toward the hallway. I still hadn’t found the library. But the smell—sweet, warm, laced with something faintly spiced and familiar—tugged at me.
Before I could answer, Myra wrapped one into a floral patterned napkin and placed it into my hand.
“It’s my mum’s recipe,” she said, her gaze remaining on the sweet treat. The muffin was golden-brown and still warm, streaked with purples and blues where the blueberries had burst.
My stomach growled before I could stop it.
“It looks delicious,” I said, earning a small smile from her.
“Let me know how you liked it,” she said, humming as she turned back to the counter.
I stood there a moment longer, watching her, seeing a long forgotten memory. The tune she hummed was soft and slow, like something sung to lull someone to sleep.
I curled my fingers around the muffin’s warmth, and suddenly I was a child again. Tucked in my mother’s lap, the same melody threading through the air like silk. I tried to remember the lyrics. I needed to remember.
But the harder I searched for them, the further they slipped away. My head began to throb.
The sweetness in the air, once comforting, now clung to my skin like syrup. It coated my throat. I couldn’t breathe.
I stumbled backward, out of the kitchen, gasping as the cool hallway air slapped me across the face like cold water.
The door clicked shut behind me, but the melody stayed echoing in my ears.
It haunted me as I searched for the lyrics in the depths of my mind.
Something about a flower… or was it a woman?
The words flitted just out of reach, dissolving every time I thought I had them. I massaged my temples.
“Elodie.”
The walls carried my name through the air and I lifted my gaze, sharply.
Hudson Lamont walked toward me, a stack of books cradled in his arms, his expression unreadable.
The meeting must have ended. I glanced behind him, half-expecting Lilian to appear in the amber light of the corridor, but she didn’t.
I found myself blowing out a relieved breath.
Maybe I would finally get a moment to ask Hudson about my mum.
“How are you liking the book so far?” he asked, voice smooth, eyes darting down to the battered copy of Encyclopaedia of an Enchanted Garden pressed protectively to my chest.
“It’s—” Amazing. I wanted to say. “It was my mum’s,” I stated, instead.
Hudson nodded. “It was. I thought you might like to have it.”
“I do.” My fingers tightened slightly around the book. “Thank you.”
For a moment I could’ve sworn he looked pleased with himself then he looked down, rearranging the books in his arms with quiet purpose.
“I’m headed to the library. Would you like to come with me?” He glanced at his watch, as if time was slipping faster here.
I nodded and fell into step beside him. “Why did you have it?” I asked, but I didn’t get an answer. As the moments passed, I started to think the house might have stolen my words before they could reach him.
We walked in silence through the manor, the corridors stretching out even longer than I remembered.
We passed my room, then another hallway, then another.
I wanted to ask about my mother—needed to—but every time the words reached my lips, something stopped me.
Paintings lined the dark walls, portraits of unsmiling men and elegant women with lifelike eyes.
Their gazes followed us like threads stitched into the back of my neck. I kept walking.
Hudson stopped in front of a tall, double-winged door. My brow furrowed. I could’ve sworn I had walked this exact path earlier, but I’d never seen this door before. It felt as though the house itself was changing, playing tricks on my mind.
Hudson pushed the door open and stood aside to allow me to enter.
The scent of ink and parchment poured out in waves.
I stepped inside, and my sight was consumed by the sky-touching shelves that overflowed the enormous room.
The hardwood creaked beneath my boots, my stomach wriggling with disbelief.
If I thought the old library was extraordinary—I raised my eyes at the ceiling, painted with rich patterns of gold and blue, like the starry night sky—then this one was otherworldly.
The windows were long, reaching high up the walls. They probably lit the whole room when the sun was out, shining. Now though, everything sat in grey silence.
Hudson walked ahead, sliding the books into place one by one while I trailed behind, my fingers absently playing with the green crystals on my wrist. My eyes scanned the shelves, looking for a three-word title.
“Your mother loved this room.” His words cut clean through the silence, and I blinked, caught off guard.
He didn’t elaborate. His blue eyes clouded for a breath, like he was remembering. His hand grazed his jaw. “If you need anything…” he began, the words slowly dying on his lips.
No one offers help without wanting something in return, my mum’s words whispered into my ear.
“Thank you,” I said quickly, tipping my chin up, “but I’m fine.” I paused, gathering my courage. “How did you know my mum?”
Hudson placed the last book in its place and turned to look at me.
“Our parents were…friends,” he said. “Of some sort. We grew up together.”
Them. “Vitalie, your sister. She was her friend.” I remembered why her name rang so familiar in my search for the library. My mum had written about her in her diary.
Hudson nodded. “They were best friends.”
“And Alex?” I blurted, too curious to stop.
Hudson arched a dark brow. “You’ve done your homework, I see.” There was a smile playing on his lips, and my chest flushed.
“I found her diary,” I admitted.
He adjusted the collar of his shirt, though it was already spotless. Every detail about him looked calculated, not needing fixing. “That… we were all friends.”
It wasn’t really the answer I was hoping for. Not in length at least.
“She never spoke of you,” I said, and his features tensed.
Emotions shimmered just beneath his skin, but like the melody in the kitchen, I couldn’t grasp them.
“She went away,” he said calmly. “When we were still young.”
His phone rang, and the spell broke when he answered it.
“Yes,” he said. “Yes, Ransom. No—no.” He sighed, massaging the bridge of his nose. “Just pass the phone to Wisteria, will you?”
As he spoke, something shifted at the edge of my vision. I turned, but only the rows of books stared back.
I drifted deeper into the aisles, drawn like a thread through the shelves. Hudson’s voice slowly died behind me. The silence was sacred here. My fingers brushed over spines—leather, cloth, cracked paper. Each one hummed quietly beneath my skin.
I could lose years here.