8. Beneath the Surface #2
I trace the pipes as they disappear into the walls.
Some sections look way newer than others — like every few decades someone came along and thought, well, let’s add this bit here.
The whole thing grew with the house. Not some grand blueprint drawn up at the start, but generations of Merricks each leaving their mark, adding their own piece to keep the whole thing running.
One valve is marked simply “Tower,” confirming the connection between this system and the watchroom I discovered.
I turn it slightly, just to see what happens, and am rewarded with a distant whoosh of air from somewhere in the ceiling.
The house responds to my touch like a living thing, adjusting its breath to my command.
“God, this is incredible,” I say, knowing he might be listening somewhere within the walls. “You’ve kept all this running for how long? Years? Decades?”
The sound of tires crunching on gravel cuts through my wonder like a knife. I freeze, one hand still on the brass valve, straining to hear over the sudden hammering of my heart. It’s nearly five in the morning—who would be arriving at this hour?
I move to the window, careful to stay partially hidden behind the heavy curtains.
A sleek black car I don’t recognize has pulled up to the front of the house, its headlights cutting bright swaths through the pre-dawn darkness.
The driver’s door opens, and a familiar figure emerges, in a tailored pantsuit, perfectly coiffed hair, even after what must have been hours of travel, designer luggage that probably costs more than three months of my rent.
Maeve. Almost twelve hours earlier than I expected.
My stomach drops as I watch her survey the estate, her expression a mixture of disapproval and determination, even from this distance.
She looks up at the house like she’s assessing a problem to be solved rather than a home to be appreciated.
Her gaze lingers on the areas most in need of repair, the loose shutter on the second floor, the weathered paint on the south-facing eaves, before she retrieves her luggage from the trunk with sharp, efficient movements.
“Shit, shit, shit,” I hiss, scrambling away from the window. I need to hide the journal, close up the panel, erase all evidence of my night’s discoveries before she walks in and starts demanding explanations I’m not ready to give.
I snap the maintenance panel closed, wincing at the soft click it makes, and quickly straighten the books I’ve disturbed during my exploration.
The journal from the basement, where can I hide that?
Not in my bedroom; Maeve will insist on seeing every room in the house to “assess its condition.” Not in the library, where she might decide to browse while waiting for me to appear.
The grandfather clock in the hall shows 4:53 AM as I dart past it, journal clutched to my chest. Think, Elara.
Think. The knock at the front door comes just as inspiration hits, the loose floorboard.
I drop to my knees, pry it up with fingers made clumsy by panic, and tuck the journal into the cavity beneath.
The board slides back into place just as Maeve’s knock grows more insistent.
“Coming!” I call, trying to sound as if I’ve just woken up rather than spent the night uncovering centuries of secrets.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the hall mirror, hair wild, eyes too bright, cheeks flushed with excitement and anxiety.
I smooth my sweater, take three deep breaths, and try to arrange my features into something resembling normal human expression.
The knocking comes again, more demanding this time. That’s Maeve all over, always assuming her urgency should be everyone else’s priority. I check myself once more in the mirror, mentally rehearsing the surprise I should show at her early arrival. My fingers reach for the doorknob, then hesitate.
For the first time since I inherited this place, I feel a fierce, protective ownership that goes beyond legal deeds and property rights.
This isn’t just a house; it’s a sanctuary with a purpose that spans generations.
And Maeve, for all her practicality and legal expertise, represents a threat to that purpose, a threat to everything the Merricks have built and maintained.
“You can do this,” I whisper to myself, squaring my shoulders. “Just get through today. Just keep her from seeing what this place really is.”
The knocking turns to pounding. I plaster what I hope passes for a sleepy smile on my face and pull open the door, bracing myself to defend not just my inheritance but the legacy I’ve only just begun to understand.
“Maeve,” I manage, feigning surprise despite having watched her arrival. “You’re… early.”
Her eyes sweep over me, cataloguing my dishevelled appearance with clinical precision. “Obviously,” she says, stepping past me without waiting for an invitation, her designer heels clicking against the hardwood like tiny hammers. “We have a lot to discuss, and I didn’t see the point in waiting.”
As I close the door behind her, I catch a flicker of movement from the corner of my eye, a shadow shifting in the hall, gone so quickly I might have imagined it. But I know better now. He is watching, waiting to see what threat Maeve poses to the sanctuary he’s sworn to protect.
The dining room feels like a battlefield, with Maeve and me as opposing generals camped at either end of the mahogany table that’s seen more elegant dinners than our tense standoff.
Candlelight flickers between us, casting dramatic shadows that dance across her perfectly composed features while probably making me look like I’m auditioning for a horror movie.
The distance between us, ten feet of polished wood that my grandmother used to host dinner parties for twelve, feels both too vast and not nearly far enough.
I watch Maeve delicately cut her chicken into precisely sized pieces, each movement so controlled it makes my skin itch.
We’ve been playing nice for hours, and my face hurts from smiling while she’s catalogued every squeaky floorboard, every water stain, every bit of peeling wallpaper like she’s building a case against my home.
“This wine is surprisingly good,” Maeve offers, holding her glass up to the candlelight. “Local?”
“From a vineyard about twenty miles north,” I reply, grateful for neutral territory. “The owner delivers personally.”
Maeve nods, setting the glass down with perfect precision. “At least something around here exceeds expectations.”
And there it is. The inevitable pivot back to criticism.
Classic Maeve — build you up just enough to knock you down, like some kind of emotional Jenga.
I take a sip of wine that is definitely bigger than necessary, practically hearing my mother’s voice in my ear: “A lady never gulps, Elara.” Yeah, well, a lady never had to sit through Maeve’s property assessment from hell either.
The warmth spreads through my chest, a liquid armour against whatever perfectly articulated insult she’s loading into her chamber.
The ancient radiator announces itself with a metallic symphony, first a hollow clank, then a succession of rattling hisses that echo through the dining room. Maeve’s fork freezes halfway to her lips, while I barely register the sound that has become my nightly lullaby.
“Good Lord,” she murmurs, her gaze darting to the corner. “How do you sleep through that racket?”
I shrug, cutting into my chicken with more force than needed. “You get used to it. Old houses talk—it’s part of their charm.”
“Charm.” She repeats the word like it’s a diagnosis she disagrees with. “These drafts can’t be good for your health. I’ve felt at least three distinct cold spots since I arrived.” Her perfectly manicured finger traces the rim of her wine glass. “And these noises, I’d never sleep.”
I grip my fork a little tighter. “I sleep better here than I ever did in the city. Gran must have noticed that. Probably why she left this place to me and not you — some of us actually appreciate a house with character.”
The words escape before I can stop them, sharp-edged and satisfying. A floorboard creaks somewhere above us, the distinctive sound of the loose board outside the guest bathroom. Maeve’s eyes flick upward, narrowing slightly.
“Was that the wind, or are we not alone in here?” Her tone aims for lightness but lands somewhere closer to accusation.
“Just the house settling,” I say automatically, though I wonder if he is moving through the hidden passages, keeping watch over our conversation. The thought is oddly comforting. “The temperature drops at night, the wood contracts. Basic physics.”
Maeve dabs at her mouth with her napkin, leaving no trace of her burgundy lipstick on the white linen. “You sound like you’ve rehearsed that explanation.”
“I’ve had to give it to myself a few times,” I admit, attempting a smile. “Until I got used to the place.”
Between us, the candles flicker, throwing Maeve’s features into sharp relief one moment and deep shadow the next.
Her eyes lock onto mine with that familiar courtroom intensity, the same look she’d give witnesses just before dismantling their testimony.
I hold her gaze without blinking, even as my pulse drums a frantic rhythm I’m certain she can somehow hear.
“You know,” she says after a too-long pause, “I’ve been thinking about your financial situation.”
My spine goes rigid. Ah, here we go. The real estate pitch dressed up as friendly concern. I should’ve served the cheap wine if I knew we were heading straight to business.
“My financial situation is fine,” I lie, keeping my voice level despite the urge to roll my eyes. “The freelance work is steady, and last I checked, my bank account wasn’t any of your business—”