Chapter Twenty-Three Saylor
Chapter Twenty-Three
Saylor
I’ve been alone in this house for exactly forty-three minutes, and I’m already losing my mind. I’m sitting at the black Steinway
in the main hall, my fingers finding random keys like they’re searching for something familiar in all this ridiculous grandeur.
The notes echo off the vaulted ceilings and disappear into corners I can’t even see, swallowed by a house too big for any
reasonable person to call home. Each chord I play sounds like a ghost trying to communicate, which is exactly the kind of
melodramatic bullshit my brain doesn’t need right now.
The piano bench creaks when I shift my weight, and even that small sound gets amplified and twisted by the acoustics until
it sounds like the house itself is complaining about my presence. I try a few bars of “Summertime,” but the melody gets lost
in all that empty space, turning sultry jazz into something that belongs in a horror movie soundtrack.
“This is ridiculous,” I mutter, closing the piano lid with more force than necessary. The bang reverberates through the hall
like a gunshot, making me jump at my own dramatic gesture.
I need to find somewhere smaller. Somewhere that doesn’t make me feel like I’m performing for an audience of painted eyes
and stone statues.
The library seems like a logical choice. What self-respecting Gothic mansion doesn’t have a cozy library with leather chairs
and a crackling fireplace? But when I push open the heavy doors, I realize I’ve made a serious miscalculation about what constitutes
cozy in Blue’s world.
The library is fucking enormous. Not just big—cathedral enormous, with shelves that stretch up three stories and a ceiling painted with scenes of angels and demons locked in eternal combat.
Rolling ladders on brass tracks provide access to books so high up they might as well be in orbit, and the whole space is lit by chandeliers that cast more shadows than actual light.
It’s beautiful in the same way that thunderstorms are beautiful.
Impressive as hell but not exactly inviting.
A massive fireplace dominates one wall, its mantelpiece carved with thorny roses and ravens that seem to watch me move through
the room. The hearth is cold and empty, no wood in sight, and I have zero idea how to build a fire anyway. The whole space
feels like it’s about ten degrees colder than the rest of the house, which is already approaching arctic.
I pull my cardigan tighter and wander between the stacks, running my fingers along leather spines that look older than American
democracy. First edition classics mixed with books written in languages I don’t recognize, their titles embossed in gold that
catches the dim light. Everything smells like old paper and expensive leather and money that gets passed down through generations.
But it’s too quiet. Too big. Too much like being alone in a museum after hours.
I give up on the library and drift back toward the main hall, my footsteps ringing against floors that probably came from
some Italian quarry where they carved headstones for princes. The sound follows me like a lonely echo, reminding me how completely
alone I am in this beautiful, haunting place.
Halfway down the grand staircase, I stop.
The portraits are watching me again. All those beautiful women with their knowing eyes and mysterious smiles. But this time,
instead of hurrying past like I did when I was trying to escape, I actually look at them. Really look.
The first one shows a woman maybe five years older than me with platinum blonde hair pulled back in an elegant updo. She’s
wearing a flowing emerald dress that looks expensive, and her smile is radiant—genuine in a way that reaches her eyes. The
nameplate reads “Cordelia.”
Next to her, a brunette, her hair in loose waves, wears a simple cream blouse and dark jeans, casual but polished. She’s holding
a single blue rose—one of those impossible blooms from Blue’s greenhouse—and her smile is small but warm. “Margaret.”
The pattern continues down the wall. “Eleanor” in a soft pink sweater that brings out the warmth in her brown eyes, her smile quiet but real.
“Vivian” with her dark hair styled in modern layers, wearing a burgundy blazer over dark pants, looking directly at the camera with steady confidence.
“Catherine” with long blonde hair cascading over one shoulder, dressed in a flowing bohemian-style top, her eyes bright and clear.
“Sophia” in a tailored navy jacket that screams professional success, her posture straight, chin lifted slightly.
All recent, from the look of the clothing. All holding single blue roses. All with natural, unforced smiles.
“Holy shit,” I whisper to the empty hallway.
Duffy’s warnings echo in my memory: “The rumors say Blue’s had seven wives, Saylor. Seven.”
I had dismissed it as gossip. Small town rumors about the mysterious rich guy with the Gothic mansion. But here are seven
portraits of beautiful women, all with that same kind of smile, all holding his signature blue roses.
Blue never said much when Duffy mentioned the wife rumors. When I’d laughed about it and called the whole thing ridiculous,
he’d just said, “Small towns love their stories,” with that unreadable expression of his.
My mouth goes dry as I count them again. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Exactly seven, just like the rumors said.
Seven women who all look content in a way that’s hard to define.
But what happened to them? And why do the rumors insist they were wives?
And Blue’s one rule about the house: The third floor is off-limits. Private. His.
What could he be keeping up there that requires such secrecy?
The thought makes me restless, making my palms go clammy. Blue specifically asked me to avoid the third floor. Said it was
private, like he was protecting his personal space. But what if he wasn’t protecting his privacy? What if he was protecting
his secrets?
I shouldn’t go upstairs. I know I shouldn’t. Blue asked me to respect his one boundary, and given everything he’s done for
me, I owe him that much trust.
But doubt is a poison that spreads through every rational thought. I can’t stop staring at Margaret’s face, at the way she looks so young and hopeful. Can’t stop wondering what happened to her, to all of them.
I can’t stop thinking about the way Blue looked at me in the greenhouse, possessiveness when he said I was his to claim.
What happens when he gets tired of claiming me? When the novelty wears off and I become just another beautiful thing he wants
to keep forever?
My feet are moving before my brain catches up, carrying me up the remaining stairs, past the second-floor landing, toward
territory I’ve never explored. The hallway that leads to the third floor is different from the rest of the house—narrower,
with lower ceilings that make everything feel more intimate and claustrophobic.
At the top of the stairs, I find a door I haven’t seen before. Heavy wood painted deep midnight blue, with an ornate iron
handle that’s cold beneath my palm. When I turn it, the door opens with the smooth silence of expensive hinges and regular
maintenance.
The sight beyond stops me completely.
The hallway stretches ahead like a city block, lined with doors on both sides like the world’s most elegant hotel corridor.
But it’s what hangs from the ceiling that makes my breath catch. Hundreds of skeleton keys suspended on nearly invisible wire,
creating a curtain of brass and iron that sways gently in air currents I can’t feel. They range from tiny delicate things
no bigger than my thumb to massive medieval-looking contraptions that could unlock castle gates.
Each key catches the light from wall sconces positioned between the doors, creating patterns of shadow and gleam that shift
and dance with every slight movement. The whole thing gives me the creeps, but I can’t stop staring.
And the doors. Jesus, the doors.
Each one is different. Some painted in rich jewel tones, others natural wood polished to mirror brightness, a few that look
like they’re covered in fabric or leather. But they all have one thing in common: intricate keyholes that seem to beckon like
dark, judging eyes.
I move deeper into the hallway, my footsteps muffled by a runner carpet so thick my heels sink into it with each step.
The keys hang just low enough that I have to duck slightly to avoid them, their metal surfaces catching the light as I pass beneath.
Some of them look newer than others, like they’ve been polished recently.
The first door I try is painted deep burgundy with a keyhole shaped like a heart. The handle turns under my hand, but the
door doesn’t budge. Locked, just like I somehow knew it would be.
The second door, this one covered in blue velvet, is also locked. As is the third, painted silver with a keyhole surrounded
by carved roses.
Every door I try stays stubbornly closed, their keyholes dark and secretive. But one of those keys hanging overhead has to
fit each lock. That’s the only reason for such a display. Blue hasn’t just locked these rooms; he’s turned the whole process
into some kind of elaborate puzzle.
The hallway seems to stretch forever, with more doors than any reasonable person could need. What could possibly require this
much secured storage space? Art collection? Wine cellar? Historic artifacts?
Or seven wives who asked too many questions?
Christ, listen to me. I’m starting to sound like one of those true crime podcasts.
I’m halfway down the hallway when curiosity finally wins over common sense. I kneel beside a door painted the color of dried
blood, pressing my eye to the keyhole like some Victorian gossip trying to spy on the neighbors.
It’s too dark to see anything clearly, but there’s definitely a room beyond the door. And something pale that might be fabric.
Or skin. Or—
“I told you not to go to the third floor.”
I jump so hard I nearly fall backward onto the carpet. I scramble to my feet, adrenaline spiking through my system as I turn
to face him.
Blue’s standing at the other end of the hallway, still wearing the clothes he left in, but now they are rumpled and stained with something dark across his shirt front.
His hair is disheveled, like he’s been in a fight, a storm, or both, and there’s something in the way he looks at me that makes every instinct scream at me to run.
But there’s nowhere to go except past him, and something tells me that’s not happening.
“You’re back early,” I say, trying for casual and missing by about a mile. “I thought you’d miss dinner.”
“Plans changed.” He starts walking toward me, his footsteps silent on the thick carpet. “Care to explain why you’re kneeling
in front of doors you have no business opening?”
“I wasn’t—I mean, I didn’t open anything.” The words tumble out too fast, making me sound exactly as guilty as I am. “I was
just curious about the keys. They’re beautiful. Very . . . decorative.”
Blue stops about six feet away, close enough that I can see the muscle jumping in his jaw but far enough that I can’t read
his face clearly in the dim light.
“Curious,” he repeats, his tone suggesting curiosity might be a capital offense in his world.
“I’m sorry. I know you said the third floor was private, but I was alone in this enormous house and I got bored and started
wandering and—” I’m babbling now, words spilling out like I can somehow explain away the fact that I’m obviously snooping
through his most personal space. “I didn’t actually go into any rooms. I tried the handles but they’re all locked anyway,
so really I was just looking at the hallway, which is honestly very impressive from an interior design perspective—”
“Saylor.”
The way he says my name makes me stop mid-sentence.
“We have dinner guests waiting downstairs,” he says. “We can talk about this later.”
Dinner guests. Right. Because nothing says “I’m definitely not hiding seven dead wives in my coffin manor,” like hosting a
dinner party immediately after catching your current girlfriend snooping around locked doors.
“Dinner guests?” I repeat. “Right now?”
“They’re waiting downstairs.” His tone shows this isn’t up for negotiation.
“Blue, about what just happened—”
“Later.” He steps aside, gesturing toward the stairs with exaggerated politeness that feels more like a threat. “After you.”
As I walk past him toward the staircase, trying to project confidence I definitely don’t feel, I catch a glimpse of his glare
in my peripheral vision.
He’s not angry.
He’s calculating.
And somehow, that’s infinitely worse.