Chapter 4 #2
“His Grace said your favorite flower was roses, told me to be sure to have them for you,” Nelly stated, a smile in her voice as she busied herself pouring tea. “I hope you like them.”
“They’re lovely,” I sighed, unable to keep my lips from turning up faintly as I accepted the dainty cup from her.
I sipped it leisurely as I turned to take in the rest of the room. Warm sweetness with the faintest hint of honey and something floral coated my throat, then sank deep into my chilled bones.
“Nelly?”
She turned at once, her warm eyes wide in the firelight. “Yes, Your Grace?”
“You said you’ve been here a year?”
She nodded, smoothing her apron as she moved toward the wardrobe and began unpacking my things. “Just over, ma’am.”
I watched her for a moment, then crossed the room to sit in a high-back chair before the hearth. “Then perhaps you can tell me something about Blackthorn Manor. Something I should know.”
At that, she faltered. Her foot slipped slightly before she recovered, keeping her eyes downcast.
“What would you like to know, Your Grace?” she murmured, her voice small and uncertain.
“Everything,” I replied. “Tell me about Mrs. Ashby. She doesn’t seem to care for me.”
That made her glance up at last. A faint flush crept into her cheeks. Her fingers began to twist nervously in the pile of dresses draped over her arm. “Oh, no, I’m sure she likes you,” she said quickly, though her tone lacked conviction.
I smiled faintly, leaning forward, lowering my voice. “Nelly, if you are to be my maid, I want you to feel comfortable with me. I’ve no friends here yet. If you help me understand the household, I promise I won’t betray your trust.”
Her eyes darted toward the door, then back to me, as if she feared the very walls might be listening.
“I suppose there’s no harm in it,” she relented after a moment. “Mrs. Ashby is not unkind, but she is very… particular. She’s been here for many years. Since the late Duke even, and she’s used to things being done her way.”
She hesitated, biting her lip. “She’s fond of His Grace, though. Very fond. Thinks the world of him, truly.”
I tilted my head, studying her. “And the rest of the staff?”
“They’re loyal,” she acknowledged after a pause, the words landing heavily between us. “They’ve all been here longer than me. Most of them don’t speak much of what happens above stairs. Or below.”
“Below?” I echoed.
Nelly froze. “Oh, just… the old servants’ corridors,” she stammered, color flooding her face. “Some say they run all through the manor, but no one uses them now. They’re dangerous. Crumbling.”
A faint draft swept through the room, stirring the flame in the hearth. Shadows danced along the walls, stretching across the portraits that lined the far end of the chamber.
Nelly swallowed, lowering her voice. “Mrs. Ashby says they should stay closed.”
I smiled thinly. “And do you listen to everything Mrs. Ashby says?”
Her eyes flicked toward the door again, and for a moment, I thought she might refuse to answer. Then, in a tone barely audible, “it’s better that way, Your Grace.”
She offered nothing more as she refilled my cup, then hovered as if reluctant to leave. When I told her I would be fine, she hesitated once more, her small hands worrying the apron at her waist.
“If you need anything, Your Grace,” she said softly, “pull the bell cord by the bed. Someone will come.”
“Thank you, Nelly. I’ll manage.”
She gave a shallow curtsy and slipped out, closing the door with a soft click. The latch caught with a sound far louder than it should have, and the silence that followed was so complete it pressed against my ears.
I drained the second cup of tea without realizing I’d lifted it, the warmth sliding down my throat like a comfort I hadn’t known I needed.
I ate mechanically—three, perhaps four of the delicate sandwiches, and several slices of sugared fruit that tasted of summer despite the cold pressing in from the windows.
My limbs grew heavy, my eyelids heavier still, as though an unseen hand was pressing me gently, insistently, toward the bed.
Exhaustion crept through me in a slow, syrupy wave.
I didn’t bother to change. I simply climbed onto the canopied bed, sinking into the coverlet as though it were swallowing me whole. The fire crackled softly in the grate, its flickering glow danced across the ceiling, contorting the ornate plasterwork into strange, watchful faces.
I just needed to rest for a moment. Only for a moment.
But sleep did not come kindly. It drifted over me in ragged scraps of half-dreams, disjointed images, and the weightless sensation of falling through soft darkness.
When I awoke, the fire had burned low, the room bathed in silvery light from the moon. I wasn’t sure what had stirred me at first—a sound perhaps, faint and distant. A whisper.
Then it came again.
A scrape.
A hollow tap.
And then, unmistakably, a voice.
“…nevermore…”
I froze, my breath catching in my throat.
“Who’s there?” My voice trembled, barely audible.
Silence answered. Only the soft hiss of dying embers.
I pushed back the coverlet and stepped onto the rug, stocking feet sinking into its thick weave. The sound came again, this time clearer, a rhythmic clicking from somewhere behind the wall.
“Nevermore…”
The word slithered through the air, low and rasping.
My heart thudded painfully. I snatched a candle from the nightstand and moved toward the sound, my hand trembling so violently that the flame guttered wildly.
At the far wall, just beside the fireplace, the noise grew louder, a faint scratching, then a muffled flutter. Before I could react, the panel beside the hearth burst open with a shower of dust and feathers.
I screamed, stumbling backward as a massive raven erupted from the darkness, wings slicing through the air with violent grace, its feathers gleaming like polished obsidian.
“Quoth the Raven!” it cawed, the sound an awful mimicry of human speech. It circled above my head, beating the air into a frenzy. “And my soul from out that shadow shall be lifted—nevermore!”
I let out another strangled cry, ducking as it dove low, brushing my hair with the edge of a wing.
“Respite! Respite!” the creature shrieked, landing upon the bedpost with a furious shake of wings. “Nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!”
My candle slipped from my hand and rolled across the floor, spilling wax like molten tears. I clutched at the bedpost, my breath coming in ragged bursts.
“What—what in God’s name?!”
“Blasphemy,” the raven hissed, its head cocking sharply, one gleaming eye fixing on me. “Blasphemy, blasphemy! Men have called me mad!”
I was shaking, my pulse deafening in my ears. The bird opened its wings again, feathers scattering dust into the air. I shrieked as it lunged toward me.
Heavy footsteps thundered up the stairs.
The door burst open, and Sylum appeared, disheveled, his eyes sharp with alarm.
“Poe!” he barked.
The raven froze mid-flight, then wheeled around in a sharp arc, perching on the high canopy of the bed.
“Lenore screams,” it mumbled. “Master scolds. Master scolds Poe.”
Sylum’s jaw tightened. “Enough.”
The bird ruffled its feathers, muttered something unintelligible, and fell silent.
I stood trembling, clutching the bedpost for balance as Sylum crossed the room to me. His expression softened when he saw my face. “He didn’t hurt you, did he?”
I shook my head, unable to speak.
He stepped closer, placing his hands gently on my arms. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I should have warned you about him. He’s harmless… mostly.”
“Harmless?” I managed. “He came out of the wall!”
At that, the raven let out a throaty chuckle. “Who dares insult us with this blasphemous mockery?!”
Sylum shot him a look, and the bird hopped back, sulking.
“He was my father’s and unfortunately, a part of my inheritance,” he explained softly, then shot the bird a narrowed eyed gaze. “A gift from an eccentric friend obsessed with poetry.”
Poe clicked his beak. “Nevermore. Nevermore! Oh my dear Lenore!”
Sylum sighed. “Ignore him. He’s dramatic.”
Despite the trembling in my chest, I almost laughed. “He’s talking, Sylum.”
He smiled faintly, brushing a stray lock of hair from my face. “Yes. He does that. Mostly nonsense, but he’s memorized some lines of poetry and other tales my father read to him."
For a moment, the tension eased, and his thumb lingered against my cheek. Then, seeing my pallor, he said, “You’re shaking.”
“I thought…” My voice faltered. “Nothing, he just startled me.”
I looked toward the panel Poe had emerged from. “What is that?”
His expression changed, something flaring behind his eyes before he masked it. “Just old tunnels. They’re not safe, but Poe doesn’t seem to heed my warnings.”
You’re safe,” he said firmly. “He won’t bother you again. I promise.”
Poe tilted his head, muttering softly, “Promises, promises. Broken promises.”
“Enough, Poe.”
The bird ruffled his wings but obeyed, retreating into the shadows of the rafters.
Sylum drew me into his arms, my head resting against his chest. His warmth steadied me, though I could still hear the faint rustle of feathers in the dark.
“You must be starving,” he murmured. “Supper should be ready soon.”
He pressed a gentle kiss on my forehead before stepping back. Holding his arm out, he called Poe to him. The bird hesitated, bobbing his head up and down before fluttering to Sylum’s shoulder.
“I’ll give you some privacy to freshen up.” With that, he turned to leave, Poe’s claws digging into his coat as if it were the most natural perch in the world.
But just as he crossed the threshold, I could have sworn I heard Poe whisper, low and singsong:
“Two shadows. One bone.”
I stood there for a long moment, staring at the closed door.