Chapter 7
When I opened my eyes, the sunlight stung and I blinked against it.
It poured through the curtains in soft, golden arcs, warming the coverlet and the floorboards alike. For a moment, I forgot I wasn’t in my tiny flat, then the scent of roses and woodsmoke drew me back.
Blackthorn Manor, my new home.
The fire had been rekindled, the hearth crackling invitingly. On the small table beside the bed sat a tray with tea, toast, a bit of fruit, and atop the folded linen napkin, a single red rose weighted down a small note. The petals gleamed in the light, dewy and impossibly fresh.
“Good morning, Your Grace.”
Nelly stood near the window as though she had materialized from the sunbeams themselves, hands clasped neatly before her apron. She smiled politely, but there was a hint of apology in her eyes, as though she bore some gentle wrongdoing.
“Forgive me for letting you sleep so late,” she said. “His Grace instructed us not to disturb you.”
“How late is it?” My voice sounded strange, thick from sleep.
“Nearly noon, ma’am.”
“Noon?” I pushed myself upright, the coverlet falling to my lap. My limbs felt heavy, unused, as though I had slept not hours but lifetimes.
“Yes,” she replied cheerfully, moving to draw back the curtains. The room flooded with light. “He said you needed rest after the journey. I didn’t have the heart to wake you.”
I stretched my arms, still feeling that dreamlike heaviness clinging to my limbs and the remnants of the strange visions that had haunted the night.
I thought of what I’d heard the night before. Sylum speaking to a woman, the voice, the crying in the walls, Mrs. Ashby, and the scream that had chased me into darkness.
But daylight has a talent for making the uncanny seem foolish.
Under the sun’s indifferent gaze, I could almost believe the night had been a trick of exhaustion, a tangle of nerves and wine, a mind still adjusting to strange walls and stranger history.
Just a dream perhaps.
“It seems I’ve slept a century,” I murmured, attempting a smile.
“Better a century than a single hour too few,” Nelly replied, moving to set out my gown for the day, a soft cream muslin with embroidered cuffs. “His Grace left you a note.”
I reached for it automatically, fingers brushing the smooth paper. The handwriting was unmistakably Sylum’s. Every line was precise. Every stroke was controlled. A man of perfect discipline.
I broke the seal with trembling fingers.
My dearest Lucy,
I hope you slept well. I thought you might like to take lunch in the solarium rather than the great hall. Come when you wake. I shall be waiting.
–S
The words were polite, almost formal, yet beneath them something gentle stirred like a careful attempt at tenderness.
“He’s very thoughtful,” Nelly commented, perhaps noting my expression. “Would you like me to prepare your hair?”
I nodded, still reading and rereading the note, tracing my finger over the slight indentation where his pen had pressed too hard on the paper. I smiled faintly despite the lingering memory playing over and over like a warning from the night before.
What had he been doing up so late? And who had he been talking to?
Was it even real?
As Nelly worked, I found myself watching the way the light shifted over the wallpaper, soft golden patterns rippling like the reflection of water. The dark corners of the night were now awash in gentle brightness.
Still, when I glanced toward the wardrobe, I could have sworn the door moved slightly—a slow, almost imperceptible sway, as though something were watching from inside.
“Did you say something, Your Grace?”
“No,” I murmured, turning my face back to the mirror. “Nothing at all.”
“I’m glad you slept well,” Nelly commented lightly as she pinned my unruly hair. “When I first arrived here, I had such a hard time adjusting to the sheer size of the place.”
I nodded, careful not to disturb her work. “It is quite an adjustment.”
She stared at my reflection in the mirror for a moment, a gentle smile touching her lips. “You’ll get used to the sounds.”
I stared back at her, ignoring the way my spine stiffened. “The sounds?”
Nelly shrugged as if I should be unbothered by the thought. “Creaks and such. The wind moving through the cracks in the stones can sometimes sound like crying.”
I swallowed, my pulse quickening beneath my skin. “Crying?”
She nodded, leaning over my shoulder almost conspiratorially. “That’s what Mrs. Ashby says anyway, but I’m not so sure.”
“Mrs. Ashby?” I repeated, finding it difficult to produce my own words suddenly.
“Of course there are rumors,” Nelly continued, quickly amending at the end, “though I’m not one to gossip.”
When she finally finished, I spun around on the stool to face her. “What rumors?”
Her cheeks flushed, suddenly coy. “Oh nothing, Your Grace, just that… well, some of the others seem to think the manor is haunted.”
“And do you believe this, Nelly?” I replied, watching her closely.
She frowned, her eyes not quite meeting mine before she crossed the room to gather the linens from my bed to wash. “Couldn’t say, Your Grace. I’ve never personally seen a ghost in the manor, but I’ve certainly heard things.”
“I thought I heard crying last night,” I admitted quietly, the sound running through my memory. “I thought… I thought perhaps it was Elizabeth.”
Nelly stiffened, her lips pressing into a thin line. Her fingers tightened on the bedsheets for just a moment before she looked away. “I wouldn’t be surprised,” she murmured. “I wasn’t here when she died, but I’ve been told it was a horrible thing.”
“Yes,” I replied under my breath, my thoughts wandering. “I’m sure it was quite awful.”
As if suddenly bored with the conversation, Nelly turned toward the door. “His Grace is probably waiting for you and Mrs. Ashby will be expecting me with your wash.”
My brows furrowed at her abrupt change of subject, but I nodded slowly. “Of course.”
By the time I reached the solarium, the sun had climbed high, filtering through the curved glass walls in fractured beams that dappled the marble floor with light. A lush perfume of jasmine and damp earth hung in the air, wrapping softly around me as I entered.
Sylum was already there, standing near one of the tall windows, a book in hand. He looked up and something soft unfurled in his expression as our eyes met.
“Lucy,” he said, his soft smile sending warmth through me. “You’re awake.”
“So it seems,” I replied lightly, taking a step closer. “I didn’t mean to sleep so long.”
“You needed it,” he murmured simply, closing the book. “You were pale last night. I should never have kept you so long at supper.”
He came forward, pulling out a chair for me at the small round table set for two. The sunlight fell across him, catching in his hair, tracing the sharp line of his jaw. There was something disarming about him in daylight. Something soft beneath the stern composure.
“I hope you’re hungry,” he said as I sat. “The staff seems to think you haven’t eaten in a week.”
He gestured, and a footman entered with two trays—one laden with fresh fruit and pastries, the other with smoked salmon and bread still warm from the oven.
I smiled faintly. “It’s far more than I expected.”
“Cook insists on abundance,” he said with a hint of wry amusement. “She thinks food solves everything. I’ve never had the heart to disagree.”
When he reached to pour tea into my cup, I smiled faintly and said, “You didn’t come to my room last night.”
He looked up at me, eyes warm, untroubled. “No,” he said lightly. “I didn’t want to wake you.”
No guilt. No hesitation.
I stirred my tea slowly. “I couldn’t sleep,” I admitted, keeping my tone airy. “I took a turn about the manor. I hoped it might ease my unrest.”
A shadow crossed his features, concern first, quickly masked by composure. “Did it help?”
“Not especially,” I replied, studying him over the rim of my cup. “Though I could have sworn I heard you speaking with someone on the other side of the manor.”
His fork paused mid-air. The silence that followed was so taut I could hear my own pulse quickening.
“The other side of the manor?” he echoed, voice too even.
I smiled dismissively, pretending I hadn’t noticed his jaw clench. “Yes. I must have gotten turned around and ended up there by mistake. The manor is so large.”
Sylum cleared his throat, setting his fork down with deliberate grace. “I’ll have Mrs. Ashby give you a proper tour this afternoon,” he promised, voice smooth again, but lacking its earlier ease.
“There are parts of the house you shouldn’t explore alone. Some are quite dangerous. The floors are weak, the corridors are half-collapsed. They’re in desperate need of restoration.”
I nodded, my expression pleasant, though inside my mind raced. “Of course. I wouldn’t want to fall through the floorboards.”
He gave a thin smile and reached for his tea, the tension bleeding from his posture, or perhaps being buried beneath it.
“So why were you awake so late?” I pressed, feigning idle curiosity.
He didn’t look at me as he lifted his cup.
“I went to bed soon after you,” he said lightly.
“It must have been the servants.” Then, leaning closer with a conspiratorial glimmer in his eye, he whispered, “there’s gossip, you know, that one of the stable boys is madly in love with a maid. It was probably just them.”
I laughed politely, but something cold coiled in my stomach. The servants, he said. But I had heard his voice. Clear as any waking sound.
I glanced toward the solarium windows. Outside, the wind moved through the gardens, bending the wisteria that clung to the stone walls. For a heartbeat, I could almost hear a low murmur again—not words this time, just the rhythm of it, like two shadows conspiring behind glass.
When I looked back, Sylum was smiling at me, his expression open and gentle. And yet, somewhere deep within that smile, I thought I saw the faintest trace of fear as he searched my eyes.
The silence stretched between us as we ate in a comfortable quiet.
At last he set his teacup aside, leaned back, and looked at me in a way that made my pulse quicken. “How about that tour?” he asked softly. “Mrs. Ashby will be furious with me for neglecting it.”
I smiled faintly. “She doesn’t seem the sort to forgive easily.”
He chuckled, standing. “No, she is not. But she’s loyal. She’s been with this house longer than I’ve been alive.”
He offered his hand to help me up. The warmth of his palm lingered when our fingers parted.
“Come,” he urged, his tone gentler now. “We’ll find her together.”
We left the solarium side by side, our footsteps echoing in the long marble corridor.
Outside, the afternoon light filtered through the stained-glass transoms, painting the floor in dancing colors of amber, crimson, and gold.
For a while neither of us spoke. The quiet felt companionable, almost peaceful, yet there was something restrained in him, as if his thoughts roamed elsewhere.
“You seem miles away,” I said at last.
He glanced at me, the ghost of a smile tugging at his perfect lips. “Do I? Perhaps I am. Blackthorn has a way of stirring old memories.”
“Good ones?”
“Some,” he said with a shrug. “Not all.”
His hand brushed mine as we turned the corner, and though the touch seemed accidental, neither of us moved away. For a heartbeat we walked like that, his fingers trailing just against mine. It was the faintest, most human reminder that I wasn’t entirely alone.
Mrs. Ashby appeared before we could speak again, as though the house itself had conjured her. She stood at the far end of the hall, her black gown severe against the light from a tall window.
“Your Grace,” she greeted, her tone respectful, but clipped.
Sylum’s hand fell away. “Ah, Mrs. Ashby. My wife has not yet been properly acquainted with the house. I would have her shown the main halls and guest rooms. Also, where she shouldn’t wander.”
Mrs. Ashby’s cool gray eyes flicked to me. “Of course, Your Grace. I shall see to it personally.”
Sylum nodded, then turned back to me. For an instant his expression softened again, and I could almost forget the stiffness in his manner.
“I must ride into the village for a few hours,” he said. “Business with the steward. I’ll return before supper.”
“So soon?” I asked, hating the note of disappointment in my voice.
He smiled, real this time, small but genuine. “You’ll hardly have time to miss me, I think. Mrs. Ashby is very thorough.”
“I can imagine,” I frowned, glancing toward the housekeeper, who stood as rigid as stonework.
He leaned closer, his voice low enough that only I could hear. “You’ll be safe here, Lucy. I promise you that.”
The words should have comforted me. They didn’t. Something dark stirred at his promise as if subtly hinting that I was, in fact, in danger.
He leaned down and I thought he would press one of his kisses to my forehead, but he didn’t.
Instead he gently hooked his finger under my chin and pressed his lips to mine.
Heat glazed my skin, the sensational warmth of his mouth threatening to buckle my knees right then and there… right in front of Mrs. Ashby.
“Until this evening, then.”
And with that, he was gone, footsteps fading down the corridor, the sound swallowed by the vast, echoing quiet of Blackthorn Manor.
Mrs. Ashby folded her hands neatly at her waist. “If you’ll follow me, Your Grace,” she said. “We’ll begin with the south wing.”
I hesitated, glancing once more toward the direction Sylum had gone. Then, drawing a steadying breath, I turned to follow her deeper into the house.