Chapter 8
The manor seemed to darken the farther we walked.
Gone were the bright panes of stained glass and the gentle reassurance of Sylum’s presence. The corridors here were narrow, their walls paneled in black walnut that drank the light from the few sputtering sconces.
Mrs. Ashby moved ahead of me with impeccable, almost predatory grace. Her footsteps were unhurried and soundless upon the carpet runner. I followed a few paces behind, my skirts dragging in quiet protest along the floor.
“This,” she said, gesturing toward a narrow archway that opened to a small sitting room, “is the south wing. These rooms are seldom used now, but they belonged to the late Duchess—His Grace’s mother. They have been kept precisely as she left them.”
I peered through the doorway as we passed. Dust motes drifted through a shaft of afternoon light, and in that golden haze, I saw the outline of a pianoforte, its lid closed, a single wilted rose resting on the keys.
“She must have been very fond of music,” I mused quietly.
Mrs. Ashby did not look at me. She didn’t even bother to slow or turn. “She was… a delicate woman.”
The tone with which she spoke the word delicate suggested a far heavier meaning, one I sensed she would not share. I let the subject drop.
We continued on, turning down a hall lined with portraits—pale, solemn figures with the same aristocratic cheekbones and haunted eyes. The Deveroux line, I assumed. The men wore expressions carved of ice, the women, sorrow.
“Blackthorn has been in the family for centuries,” Mrs. Ashby said, her gaze never straying from the path ahead. “The original structure was smaller, but it grew with each generation. As you will see, it has… many additions.”
I smiled faintly. “Yes, I’ve already discovered that. As you recall, I nearly lost myself last night.”
Her head turned slightly, though her stride did not falter. “Yes, I certainly recall.”
She stopped before a tall window at the end of the corridor, her reflection ghostly in the glass. “The manor is not safe at night,” she said firmly. “The floors have shifted with age, the staircases are treacherous. You should stay in your rooms.”
Something in her voice, an undercurrent of warning, made me shiver.
“Of course,” I murmured. “I’ll be more careful.”
She gave me a curt nod then resumed walking, leading me through a series of double doors that opened into the library.
My breath caught.
It was vast and two stories high, with shelves that climbed toward a vaulted ceiling painted in dusky tones of blue and gold. Thousands of books lined the walls, their spines glimmering in the muted light. It was an introverted lady’s dream.
I nearly salivated as I ran my fingers over the aged spines.
“This was His Grace’s father’s domain,” Mrs. Ashby said. “He was a man of… peculiar taste. Philosophy, history, science, and the occult.”
“The occult?” I asked, half-smiling from curiosity prickling through my unease.
Her lips twitched, neither smile nor frown. “Lord Blackthorn had a fascination with things best left unexplored. His Grace, of current, does not approve of such interests and has forbidden entry to the study beyond those doors.”
She gestured toward an arched door at the far end of the gallery. It was locked with an ornate brass latch.
“Forbidden?” I echoed. “Why?”
Her gaze met mine then, calm, steady, unreadable. “Because not all knowledge is kind, Your Grace. And not all rooms in this house wish to be opened.”
The words hung between us, heavy as the air itself.
I looked again at the locked door, its handle gleaming faintly in the dimness. An icy chill seemed to leak from its seams.
“I see,” I murmured.
Mrs. Ashby inclined her head and turned away. “If you’ll follow me, we’ll continue to the upper floor.”
We ascended the grand staircase, our reflections multiplying in the gilt-framed mirrors along the landing. The higher we climbed, the colder the air grew. Somewhere beneath us, the manor creaked and sighed, as if resettling its bones.
At the top, the housekeeper paused before a corridor shrouded in half-dark. A tall door stood at the end, the brass handle dull with age.
“That wing is under repair,” she said curtly. “You’ll find it locked. Best to keep away from it for now.”
Something in her tone made me glance twice. “What is it?”
“The east wing,” she replied. “It’s unsafe and off limits.”
I felt my breath hitch. The east wing. Elizabeth had died there. And, if I was not mad, it was where I’d heard voices the night before. Where someone had spoken in low, urgent tones.
But how? The door to the east wing was locked securely.
I glanced at Mrs. Ashby, my gaze drifting to the ring of gold keys looped through her apron ties.
I swallowed. “Mrs. Ashby… may I ask you something?”
Her posture stiffened, though she nodded.
“It’s about Elizabeth,” I said quietly. “His former fiancée.”
The air seemed to still. Even the manor’s restless creaks quieted.
“What about her?” Mrs. Ashby asked, her voice flat.
“I… I know she died here,” I continued carefully. “Sylum told me she fell from the balcony. Broke her neck.” I hesitated. “Is that… truly what happened?”
Her eyes, that were cool moments ago, sharpened into something harder. “Yes,” she said with crisp finality. “She fell. A tragic accident.”
No elaboration. No emotion. Just a wall slammed shut.
“I only ask,” I persisted gently, “because the manor… well, last night I thought I heard…” Shame flushed through me. “I heard crying.”
Her expression did not change, but something cold flickered beneath it.
“Old houses weep in their own ways,” she assured firmly. “You mustn’t let your imagination lead you astray. There is no crying here, Your Grace.”
The dismissal was so abrupt it felt like a slap.
“I see,” I murmured.
“Good.” Her tone brooked no further discussion. “We shall continue.”
Mrs. Ashby moved on, leaving me to linger at the threshold a moment longer. I could have sworn I heard something faint and hollow behind the door. A scrape, a breath, perhaps only the sigh of wind through old stone.
When she noticed my hesitation, she turned back. “Is something the matter, Your Grace?”
I forced a smile. “No… nothing at all.”
Her eyes lingered on me, sharp and appraising, before she nodded once. “Then come. There is still much to see.”
We returned to the main staircase, the silence between us thick and oppressive. As we descended, I felt the weight of the manor pressing around me, its corridors twisting unseen behind closed doors.
When we reached the hall again, Mrs. Ashby inclined her head stiffly. “The house is a maze, but eventually you’ll have your bearings.” We turned down several corridors at the back of the house.
Room after room, hallway after hallway, door after door. By the time we’d finished, my feet ached dreadfully and my stomach protested my fast.
“That concludes the tour for now,” she said finally, almost dismissively.
“His Grace will be expecting you for supper soon I’m sure. Nelly will help you freshen up and dress.” She eyed me closely for a moment, lips pressing into a thin line as her gaze trailed to my scar.
“I have a salve that will calm the irritation,” she said plainly. “I’ll send it up with Nelly.”
I thanked her, reaching up to touch my scar, though she had already begun to walk away. Her black gown vanished down the corridor like a shadow receding into deeper shadow.
I stood alone a moment longer, my pulse still unsteady. The manor seemed too quiet again, watchful somehow, as though it had taken note of my curiosity and found it displeasing.
I turned to leave, and as I did, a sound rose from somewhere above.
A slow, deliberate knock.
One.
Two.
Three.
Then silence.
At first, I thought I had imagined it.
The echo of Mrs. Ashby’s heels had long faded down the hall, leaving only the muffled rhythm of my own heartbeat. I stood at the base of the grand staircase, staring upward into the dimness, waiting.
There it was again.
Three sharp, deliberate knocks. They seemed measured and patient, as though whoever, or whatever, made them already knew I would come.
A chill swept down my spine. The air felt colder than before, thick with the faint scent of damp stone and old smoke.
I told myself to walk away. To go back to my chamber, lock the door, and wait for Sylum’s return.
But the sound came again.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
I swallowed hard, gathering my skirts in one trembling hand as I began to climb the stairs.
The higher I went, the quieter the manor seemed.
Even the sigh of the wind through the eaves was gone, replaced by a suffocating stillness.
I reached the landing and stood listening, the long corridor stretching before me like the throat of some great beast.
“Hello?” My voice sounded foreign, too loud, swallowed quickly by the dark. “Is someone there?”
No answer. Only the soft groan of the old timbers above.
I took another cautious step, then another, following the sound down the narrow passage until I stood before a tall, closed door.
The east wing door. The very one Mrs. Ashby had forbidden me from approaching.
The tarnished brass handle gleamed faintly as I reached out. Its cold metal bit into my fingertips, grounding me. “Ridiculous,” I murmured, forcing air through tightening lungs. “It’s only drafts… nothing more.”
A low voice answered from somewhere above my head.
“Quoth the Raven!”
I screamed, stumbling back.
A black shape dropped from the rafters and landed on the banister—wings spread, feathers glinting blue-black in the dim light.
“Poe!” I gasped, clutching my chest. But still a laugh escaped me as the raven shook out his feathers.
“You… you nearly frightened me to death!”
He tilted his head, dark eyes catching the faint gleam of a candle. Then, with deliberate slowness, he hopped closer along the rail.
“It was open—wide, wide—open,” he muttered between squawks, “and I grew furious as I gazed upon it!”
“More poetry?” I frowned, half in disbelief, half in morbid curiosity as I glanced at the door.
Poe fixed one eye upon me, then upon the handle, and uttered in a mournful sigh, “Darkness there… and nothing more…”
I pressed a hand to my chest to calm the sudden unease. Was it possible, the bird was trying to tell me something? Had the door been open? Had I wandered through it the night before?
I shook the thought before it could fully materialize.
No, of course not. He was just a bird… and he was only reciting words from memory… nothing more.
The bird preened a wing, as if uninterested in my plight.
“Men have called me mad.” His voice, harsh and melodic, human yet not, made my skin crawl and my heart ache all at once.
“Yes, well,” I exhaled shakily, “they’ve said the same about me.”
His beak clicked thoughtfully. “No exquisite beauty,” he crooned, voice lowering, “without some strangeness in the proportion…”
A faint, reluctant smile touched my lips. “Indeed.”
The raven hopped closer, lowering his body to peer at me. I reached out slowly, scratching the top of his head.
“My Lenore,” Poe lamented quietly.
I smiled and shook my head. “I’m not Lenore, silly. My name is Lucy.”
He gave a jarring, unsettling laugh as if I had spoken nonsense, then tilted his head sharply, focusing once more on the sealed door.
“Why were you knocking?” I asked softly, following his gaze.
“This mystery explore,” the raven replied, bobbing as though encouraging me forward. “This mystery explore.”
My blood suddenly turned cold as I stared down at him. His replies were cryptic, yet made just enough sense to stir unease.
“What mystery, Poe?” I asked, wondering if he was far more intelligent than anyone believed.
Poe turned his head toward the door once more, tapping the brass handle with his beak.
“Tis some visitor tapping at your chamber door,” he replied, his voice soft as if he were trying to whisper.
I frowned, my pulse quickening until I found it hard to catch my breath.
Before I could speak, he launched into the rafters with a thunderous sweep of wings, disappearing into the darkness above. A cascade of dust spiraled down in his wake.
Silence reclaimed the corridor.
I stood there for a long time, staring at the door, my heart thrumming painfully in my chest. Finally, I turned and fled down the stairs, too afraid to look back.