Chapter Ten
Lilith
The electricity did not come back on in the next half hour, but Lilith’s laptop was able to connect to the internet through
her hot spot to search for Brackenmere Manor.
was the first hit on Google.
That was easy.
Lilith clicked the link and was met with a clunky website. The neon-blue background featured a picture of a dilapidated three-story
Tudor manor–style house. Though ivy crawled up the parchment-colored exterior and the house sagged in on itself, Lilith recognized
the estate as if she’d been there.
She could recall the original glory so vividly with its stone path leading to the entrance, framed by manicured bushes shaped
like giant gumdrops.
A lightheaded sensation swept over her, the same as when she was sucked into the dream. She paused for a steady breath, grounding
herself like Essie always encouraged.
“I’m in Savannah,” Lilith said aloud, feeling silly. “I’m sitting in my living room on a hideous couch Mama bought when I was ten.”
She scowled at the floral couch.
It really was a crime against upholstery.
Essie was right, there was a lot more life to live now that Mama was gone. Maybe Lilith might start by replacing the furniture.
If she existed long enough.
Whatever that meant.
Still, her pulse raced a little faster. Because regardless of what “ceasing to exist” meant, it sounded ominous.
“I’m in Savannah,” Lilith repeated loudly to absolutely no one. “Sitting on this floral monstrosity I need to replace.”
She lowered her gaze to the website, this time without the disorienting thought of its former appearance.
Essie really was right about everything. So unfair.
There were three drop downs available on the site. One for more pictures, of which there were none. Another with a history
of Brackenmere Manor, detailing the construction in the mid-1500s by a wealthy wool merchant. And a third with a Contact Me
form along with a broken link to a bed and breakfast.
Given the website’s ancient design, the Contact Me probably would disappear into a dusty old AOL inbox no one had checked
in a decade.
Still, nothing ventured, nothing gained.
Lilith filled out her contact information and jotted a quick inquiry about the property’s history, adding Sybil’s name for
good measure. She didn’t mention the broken B&B link. No sense in riling them up before they even replied.
If they replied.
Lilith hit send and closed her laptop.
Hands shaking slightly, she poured herself a glass of chilled Chardonnay and pushed out the back door, into the garden. Into the night.
The rain had stopped, but the earth was wet beneath Lilith’s bare feet, and the cool caress of waterlogged grass sent a sense
of peace up her legs and through her entire body. Moonlight peered through curtains of hanging moss draped over the gnarled
branches of their single live oak. She closed her eyes and tilted her face to dappled beams, bathing herself in silver light.
Her nerves calmed and a sense of strength washed over her.
She set aside the wineglass, no longer wanting the dulling effects of alcohol. Emboldened, she approached the honeysuckle
vine.
Rather than fight the allure, she inhaled the sweet fragrance and gently stroked one of the leaves. The vine grew toward her,
sprouting tender green leaves.
“Are you trying to tell me something?” she whispered into the quiet evening air.
Red honeysuckle blossoms flared open in reply.
But rather than surrender to the weight of her confusion, Lilith basked in the beauty of the garden. In the exquisite impossibility
of something so otherworldly being possible.
Surely all of this could not be for nothing.
“Will you help keep me from ceasing to exist?” she asked.
A breeze blew through the warm, still night like a reassuring caress.
“Thank you,” she mouthed. Her gratitude was for no one in particular, but for everything. For the earth around her, the wet
soil under her bare feet, the garden with all its powerful secrets, and the honeysuckle that made her believe it was okay
to hope.
She returned inside with a profound sense of peace and opened her laptop to find a reply waiting for her from Asher@.
She clicked the email and read.
Miss Legare,
Thank you for your interest in Brackenmere Manor. I’m afraid it’s in a sorry state at present, and I don’t have as much history
as I’d like. I do know that the estate has been in my family for several generations, sometime after your ancestor, I believe.
With apologies, there is little else I can offer.
Another email had arrived one minute later from Asher@, this one with a curiously different tone.
My dear, I have failed to mention there is a fully operational bed and breakfast on the property. If you come stay with us,
you are welcome to explore the old manor house whenever you desire. For your convenience, I have attached an updated link
with information on our accommodations. Guests have been quite happy, as you can see from our stellar reviews!
Yet another email arrived ten minutes later, from the same email address.
Miss Legare,
Apologies, I forgot my aunt still has access to this email address and apparently, we have both emailed a reply. She is quite
proud of her bed and breakfast as you can tell. Do not let her badger you into coming.
Lilith could picture a stodgy old Asher and his even older aunt in separate rooms, pinging emails back and forth in an internet-fueled tete-a-tete.
The link Asher’s aunt sent worked, revealing a modern, ready-made website depicting three simple bedrooms, each with an en
suite, all done in neutral-colored furnishings and decor. Judging by the booking calendar, the property did not appear popular,
but Trip Advisor’s dozen reviews confirmed the beds were comfortable, the breakfast was delicious, and the entire thing was
legit and not some trap for a serial killer to lure in victims.
But travel to England?
Could she do that?
She did have a passport—from the trip to Italy she’d planned with her last boyfriend. He’d been her waiter at Local 11 Ten
restaurant one night and had offered to walk her home after his shift. They’d taken go-cups of merlot and strolled Forsyth
Park, outlasting dog walkers and even the art students out for late night sketches. From there, she’d pictured a life with
him, maybe moving in together, getting a cat…and they’d booked the trip to Italy.
He’d been a reprieve from Mama until the pandemic, when the trip to Italy had to be postponed and the roommate he swore was
“just a friend” turned into something more.
Forced proximity. Even now, Lilith rolled her eyes at her own stupidity. She knew better. After all, how many books featuring that trope passed
from her hands to eager customers at Shelver’s Books on a regular basis?
The thought of Shelver’s brought up another obstacle. She couldn’t go anywhere until they hired their full-time employee.
Her birthmark grew warm, the skin tingling.
There was a certainty in her gut that this was the past the fortune teller had meant, that this Brackenmere Manor could help
answer the questions she didn’t even know how to ask.
For all the excuses she found to remain comfortably at home in Savannah, everything in her demanded she hop on the next plane to England.
Lilith picked up her phone, finally replying to Essie: I think I need to go to England.
She replied immediately: If that fortune teller told you to take a trip to Europe, I need to book an appointment stat!
Lilith bit her lip, weighing whether to elaborate on her visit to Enchanted. Mentioning the whole thing felt a little heavy,
a lot strange, and way too underexplained to even begin to describe.
Especially when she didn’t even understand exactly what happened herself. But whatever was pulling her toward England, she
needed to give in, to find answers.
For Sybil.
For herself.
For that horrible warning hanging in her thoughts like a curse.
You will cease to exist.